Isolation
by Quirel
Summary: A man's past is not past. His actions in his younger years are what shape him, guide him, and define him today. It is his choice, however, as to whether the darker moments of his life control his future.
1. Burning Bright

**0051 hours, 9th October, 2549 (Military Calendar)  
Tau Ceti System, Lower Kilrathian Forest  
Planet Diogenes**

The breeze slowly sifted through the forest, mingling with the calls of the night animals to create a tuneless, halting melody. Above, the stars twinkled in the night sky, in constellations that were never seen or imagined on Earth. Joining the stars in the sky were two moons, vast and bright and nearly full. A peaceful, serene landscape.

Normally.

But there was more. The stars were obscured by thick, black smoke from distant fires. The sky was lit by bright flashes, the thunder of clashing titans in the heavens. The melody of the forest was punctuated by distant rumbles. And in a small valley, hidden in shadows beneath a large tree, a number of Grunts slept the night away.

They had fed well the previous day, gorging on what the Jackals had not eaten. Sinew and tough muscle were not the tastiest parts of the humans, but food was food, and anything was better than their rations. So now they slept soundly on full stomachs, not stirring.

Nearby, a large shadow moved toward them. In the dim light, the shadow slowly resolved itself into several tall shadows, then several tall humanoid shadows, then finally several tall humanoid figures in gleaming armor.

Elites.

The Elites strode towards the Grunts, plasma rifles at ease. It was routine to check on the lower ranks every now and then, but there wasn't really a reason for it. The front lines were hundreds of miles away, so what could happen? When the trio reached the tree, two held back and started discussing other matters in their native language while the third one stepped forward.

The first thing he noticed was that the Grunts weren't moving. No uncomfortable shifting, no murmurs to indicate dreams. Just the stillness of death.

The Elite rushed forward, kneeling beside one of the Grunts. To his horror, there were slash marks on the Methane tanks, and puddles of bubbling liquid on the ground. The liquid methane was boiling into the atmosphere. One spark, a single flame, would ignite the gas and kill them all. No, one spark would kill only the Elites. The Grunts were already dead from asphyxiation.

The Elite stood up, somehow unable to breathe. Whether it was from fear or the methane, he couldn't tell. Every instinct told him to turn and run, but he could only stand there, petrified.

A distant sound broke the spell and caused the Elite to turn. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shot from a plasma pistol streak through the night and enter the invisible cloud of methane. As time seemed to slow down, the plasma bolt blossomed, like a beautiful rose. A red, orange, and yellow multifoliate rose. The rose expanded to envelop them all within its blazing petals, overwhelming the Elites' armor and drowning out their screams.

The Combined Gas Law says that if the temperature of a gas increases, the volume of the gas must increase also. The temperature of the air had increased exponentially, so the volume of the gas must increase exponentially.

Explosively.

The explosion consumed the Elites and the Grunts as it rushed outwards, devouring everything in its wake. Grass withered and caught fire. Bushes smoked and then burst into flame. Trees shattered from the blast wave, then fueled the fire. The fireball slowed and lifted into the forest canopy, stripping trees of their needles and branches, and then it died out. The rumbling sound echoed off into the night, leaving only the flickering flames dancing with the shadows.

At first, nothing stirred in the valley. The wildlife, so noisy at night, was silent. The only animate things were the dancing flames and their partners, the shadows. One minute passed and then another before a shadow excused itself from the dance and approached the conflagration. It was a human soldier, clad in black, armed with a sniper rifle. His right eye and most of his forehead was covered with a HMD eyepiece, wirelessly linked to the scope of his sniper rifle. The soldier stopped just short of the fire, slowly sweeping the scene with his visible eye, taking in all the destruction he had caused with grim satisfaction. The stoic expression on his face could have been carved in stone, so unchanging it was...

Then the Marine laughed. It sounded unearthly, a laugh of a tortured soul instead of flesh and blood. It was low, dry, rasping like a dying man, cynical from years of fighting death. The laugh echoed throughout the valley, and was lost in the roaring flames, a fitting end to the macabre joke.

Having seen everything he wanted to see, the Marine turned and confidently strode off into the darkness.

* * *

**AN: My first fanfic. I've got about half the story written out, and it gets better. I'll try to update as often as possible. Please review the story, thank you.**

**I hope you enjoy it.**

**Note: a disclaimer in Hiaku form:**

**Bungie owns Halo**

**And Microsoft owns Bungie**

**But I own nothing.  
**


	2. Wake Up, Get Up, Heads Up!

**_Gui Montag is a stellar example of his class, and I can only wish that the rest of the Siberian recruits were like him. He's attentive, imaginative, and eager to learn, traits that mark the survivors of this war. In addition, his technical skills recommend him to more specialized roles in the Marine Corps.  
_**

**_Drill Sergeant Alan Dubrinsky_**

* * *

**0110 hours, 19th September, 2552 (Military Calendar)****  
Threshold system, Pillar of Autumn  
Cyro Bay Databank**

Rows upon rows of cyrotubes hummed away; cold metallic cocoons for their occupants. Every thirty minutes, like clockwork, they would scan their occupants for anomalies. Heart rate monitors and EEGs would start beeping and whining incessantly. For five minutes, the tests would continue as blood nutrient and spinal fluid levels would be checked. The machines would check, tally, and double check every readout and flash the results on their display screens. Then, satisfied that absolutely nothing was wrong, the machines would go back to their quiet humming and clicking. But the "dumb" AI in charge would continue to review the data and fidget with the controls.

As it was cross checking the EEG readouts with UNSC standards, it received a message from the bridge. The Pillar of Autumn was exiting Slipspace, and the AI was ordered to wake the occupants of the cyrotubes. With the mental equivalent of a shrug, it passed on the command to the machinery, and watched as body temperatures slowly rose, EEG readouts accelerated, and blood began flowing through veins and arteries. The room temperature was brought up to twenty five degrees to help the Marines warm up, and the non-slip floor began to heat up too. After waiting for the correct moment, the AI ordered the cyrotubes to open and release their occupants. Then it merely watched.

What happened in the next five minutes the AI had down to a science.

They would have all waken up from that twilight between inanimate existence and consciousness, where parts of the brain were starved for information and cannibalized their memories for information. It wasn't dreaming so much as watching your life pass before your eyes, as hours of your life were compressed into a minute or two. Disorientation upon waking was evident in all but the seasoned soldiers.

For the next sixty seconds, the Marines exiting the cyrotubes would regurgitate the swallowed nutrient compound on the floor instead of the provided waste receptacles and compare the taste to that of various body fluids and excretions.

For the next two minutes, the Marines would slowly gravitate towards their lockers and don clothes while reciting macho clichés or comparing and degrading anatomical differences between each other. Showing off scars, prosthetics, and skin grafts was just as popular.

The humans were all pathetically predictable, the AI would have thought, if it could form actual opinions not related to its primary duties.

* * *

**Cyro Bay 3, tube 451, 0116  
**

One marine however, did not fit this description. Waking from Cyro sleep like an insomniac drifting back into wakefulness, he systematically stretched to relieve various cramps, then he regurgitated the protein compound into the appropriate waste receptacle. With his right eye shut, the marine slowly checked his limbs and torso, looking for evidence of freezer burn with clinical detachment.

Then he stood up and pushed his way past a group of shivering Marines. Striding up to his locker, he pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner. There was a flash, then the door unlocked. The marine reached in and pulled out a pair of underwear, and started to dress.

"Yo, get your short little carcass outta the way,"

Gui Montag turned and glared at the other soldier in the eye. At 170 centimeters, he was half a head shorter than the other guy, an ODST judging from the tattoo on his shoulder. He continued to stare his antagonist in the eye, then turned back and resumed dressing. His whole demeanor told the other soldier that Gui Montag could care less if the ODST dropped dead right there.

"Hey, Reject," the ODST started.

Quick as a flash, Gui Montag grabbed his left fist in his right hand and swung, elbowing the Marine in the neck below the Adam's apple. The ODST staggered back, clutching his neck and coughing. Recovering quickly, he advanced on Montag, shouting obscenities. The other Marines noticed the action and started to circle for a better view of the impending fight. Nothing like a brawl to liven up the morning. Some of them began cheering the two on, goading them into a fight.

Montag reached into his locker and pulled out a .50 caliber handgun, displaying a regard for safety regulations on par with his earlier regard for the trooper's existence. Cocking it and switching off the safety in one swift move, he aimed it at the ODST's crotch and paused, his meaning clear.

The cryo room went quiet and still. The gun had taken everyone completely by surprise, as it should have been stored in the armory. The ODST uncertainly stood his ground for a few seconds, then backed away, muttering something about bringing a handgun to a fistfight. Montag had won the fight without uttering a single word, as usual.

The Marines went back to dressing, and Montag turned back to his locker. Carefully setting the Handgun down, he pulled on a pair of pants and a belt. Picking the gun up, he held it by the slide and ran his fingers over scores of nicks carved into the butt of the gun, nicks so fine and regular that it could have been mistaken for toolwork. One nick for every Covenant killed with the gun, some nicks deeper than others. The gun had an almost imperceptible coating of dust from three months spent in the locker. It seemed like only yesterday that he had locked up his equipment. It _had _been only yesterday, since Montag had been in cold sleep while the universe around him aged three months. Sighing, Montag slid the gun into its holster.

He reached into the locker again, and pulled out a combat knife with similar notches on the handle. Close inspection revealed that it was homemade, the blade having been ground from battleship Tungsten\Titanium plate, and the hilt was some sort of dark hardwood, with scores of small notches carved in regular little rows.

A backpack followed. It was not standard issue, and wasn't even military made. It was homemade from what appeared to be leather and canvas, well worn from use. Like all of Montag's other equipment, the backpack was actually well cared for, carefully patched and darned. Lifting the bag, Montag walked out of the Cyro room.

* * *

**Armory, 0120 Hours**

The orders to stand by and prepare to repel boarding parties had come in over the PA system. The Marines rushed to the armory and began to pick up their customary assault rifles, although some opted for shotguns. Montag stopped by a particular rack filled with sniper rifle ammo. Laying his backpack on a nearby table, he opened it. It actually unrolled to become a single large piece of leather with various pockets. Grabbing two boxes of S2 AM Penetrator clips, Montag carefully slid them into a pocket, checking to make sure they fit snugly. He then grabbed two boxes of Shredder clips and slid them into a similar pocket.

Montag looked around. Everywhere, his fellow Marines were grabbing assault rifles and donning body armor. There was a shudder, a tremor that ran through the floor. Marines everywhere paused, then started dressing faster. The Covenant were coming.

Montag moved even faster than he had been. Running over to a rack of handgun ammo, he picked up the largest clip he could find. Checking to make sure that the clip was a .50 caliber and that it was compatible with his Gaubika, he then picked up more of the same clip and carried them back to his pack. Like the sniper ammo, the pistol rounds went into special pouches. More supplies were procured. MRE's went into pockets, some basic medical supplies and a backup radio also were packed.

Content, Montag rolled up the pack and strode over to the armor section. Entering a room marked Special Ops, he looked around and walked over to a locker with his serial number on it, pulled out some body armor and put it on. It was a special type that darkened or brightened according to ambient light. A rather primitive form of camouflage, but it was better than nothing. It also passively diffused bolts of plasma; the plasma still got through, but it wouldn't burn as bad, and would cause less damage to his body. He checked the batteries to see if they were charged. Then he reached for a helmet.

The helmet Montag selected was different from normal helmets. Instead of a small holographic HMD, his HMD had a plasma screen on one side, and a camera lens on the other. It was about as big and thick as his palm, but light as a feather. This was one of his favorite tools. It was wirelessly linked to his sniper scope so he could see video from the scopes point of view. Normal use, however, was quite similar to a Marines HMD, albeit with night vision and infra-red filters.

Montag put the helmet on and turned on the HMD. The screen blinked twice, then the words "Please calibrate." appeared. A dot appeared in the middle of the screen, and the words changed to "Please look directly at the flashing yellow dot and blink." Montag complied, quickly moving through the steps of the calibration process. Meanwhile, a small camera tracked his eye movements, tuning the HMD's responsiveness.

The screen switched to show what the camera was seeing, and icons started filling the right side of the screen. One was the silhouette of a sniper rifle, and another was a dot surrounded by ripples.

Montag picked up a small rod-shaped device that had been set next to the helmet. The gadget didn't look like much, but this would certainly help him in a shootout with the Covenant. It contained three independent gyroscopes and two redundant accelerometers, and would track movement and relative position to Montag's HMD. He clipped the device to the barrel of his handgun and pressed the ON switch.

A logo appeared in his HMD. It was a silhouette of a pistol. He looked directly at the logo and blinked twice. A targeting reticule appeared on the HMD along with the words "Please Calibrate."

Montag walked back out into the armory to the shooting range. This was a room that was dedicated to setting the sights on the weapons, as well as practicing marksmanship.

Turning around to face the targets, Montag pressed another button on the Tracker. A laser beamed out of one end. It could be used as a laser sight, but that wasn't what it was intended for. Holding the gun straight out, he tracked the laser along the Elite shaped target until the laser was focused on the exact center of the target's head. When the reticule, the gun sights, and the laser dot were lined up, Montag carefully squeezed off a shot. The bullet punched a hole right where the laser dot was. Satisfied, Montag pressed the button to turn off the laser.

The HMD flashed, the calibration complete. Montag swung the gun around, and the reticule moved to show him where the gun was aiming. Handy, but he had to recalibrate every thirty shots to maintain accuracy.

The final bit of equipment he needed was in a locker with his serial number on it. He calmly stepped around an engineer repairing an MA5's electronics suite and typed his combination into the locker. Inside was a matte black SRS99C-S2 AM sniper rifle with the now familiar notches along the stock.

Montag picked up the sniper rifle and turned the scope on. Looking directly at the sniper rifle icon on his HMD, he blinked twice. Instantly, the video on the HMD changed to a feed from the Rifle's scope. He gave the scope an experimental tap, then pressed a diagnostic button to check the lag between the scope and his HMD.

"What's taking so long?"

The sniper turned around to see a sergeant standing in the doorway. "We don't get paid overtime, Corporal. Out there, front and center, now!"

With insolent slowness, Montag slung his backpack across his back, put the Rifle's shoulder strap over his shoulder, holstered the Handgun, and walked out of the room.

* * *

**Rec. Room, 0124 Hours  
**

Chaos. Utter Chaos.

That would probably be the best description of the current state of affairs. Everyone was milling about, everyone was shouting to hear over other people shouting to each other. The Marines knew that trouble was brewing, but they didn't have their orders and hadn't been briefed.

"_ATTENTION_!"

Everyone looked towards a Lieutenant standing in the doorway.

"_MARINES, WE ARE BEING BOARDED BY COVENANT FORCES. THAT'S RIGHT, THE COVENANT ARE SICK AND TIRED OF FIGHTING FOR THEIR OWN PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A MILITARY. THEY ARE DEFECTING EN MASSE AND BOARDING THE PILLAR OF AUTUMN WITH THE SOLE INTENT OF JOINING THE CORPS. IT IS UP TO YOU TO SECURE THE LIFEBOAT BAYS AND SHOW THEM SPLIT-JAWED PLASMASUCKERS THAT NOT EVERYONE CAN BE A MARINE! TELL THEM SPECIFICALLY THAT IF BACKWARDS, DEGENERATE ALIEN SLACKERS LIKE THEM WANT TO JOIN THE ARMED FORCES OF THE UNITED NATIONS, THAT'S WHAT THEY CREATED THE ARMY FOR._"

"_ALSO, THE NAVY PUKES ARE GETTING WORRIED, AND ARE LEAVING LIKE RATS JUMPING A SINKING SHIP. YOU ARE TO PROTECT THEM WHILE THEY GET TO THE LIFEBOATS. SOME DIAPER CHANGING MIGHT BE NECESSARY, BUT YOU ARE MARINES! I KNOW YOU CAN HANDLE IT! NOW MOVE OUT AND FOLLOW THE NAV POINTS ON YOUR HUD"_

The Marines began running out of the Rec Room to their objectives. When nobody was looking, the Lieutenant winced and began rubbing his sore throat.

* * *

**AN: The story accelerates from here. Right now, I'm giving you a teaser of what Gui Montag is like, who he is. Please review, and tell me if I did anything wrong.**

**Edit: 31-12-09 Went back and cleaned this up a little bit. Surprisingly enough I didn't have to change much...  
**


	3. Chaos

**_"Sergeant Gui Montag, although a veteran of some years, is hereby recommended for dishonorable discharge. Despite his interesting combat record, his callous murder of civilians taken into custody on February eleventh, including a number of minors, is far beyond the pale. Had my men not intervened, I do believe that he would not have stopped until he ran out of ammo or prisoners."_**

**_Staff Sergeant G. McDougal_**

* * *

**Service Corridor 3, Deck D, 200 Meters aft of Armory 3-B. 0125 Hours **

_"Attention,"_ the female voice blared over the PA system. _"We are reengaging the enemy." _

The Marines ran double time down the service corridor. Wide as a two lane road, there were doors on either side at regular intervals, leading to other parts of the ship. Other groups of Marines were either racing to their objectives or setting up checkpoints to defend the service corridor from Covenant intruders. The service corridor was a particularly large hallway allowing personnel and technicians to get from one point on a ship to another, almost like a highway on earth. It was also used for moving replacement parts and ship components where they needed to be. Or in this case, soldiers. If the Covenant got access to the service corridor, they would spread like an infection throughout the ship.

One hundred meters. Montag concentrated on the neon green Nav point on his HMD. When he reached the Nav point, which was hovering over a distant doorway, it would relocate to his next objective.

Montag passed through a large checkpoint door. If there was a hull breach in one section of the service corridor, the checkpoint doors at either end of the section would close and lock immediately, hermetically sealing off the section. The same thing would happen when the Covenant came, _woe betide _to any person trapped with the Covenant. If a person was fast enough, he could escape through one of the doors leading to the side hallways. These doors were placed at regular intervals every forty meters, but in case of a breach or intruders, these doors too would close and lock down. And they closed pretty quickly.

"_Move, move, move_!" The sergeant was shouting, urging them on. Another hundred meters to Montag's turnoff.

Montag continued to run. Technicians and personnel ran in the other directions, towards the hangars. The hangars contained the Pillar of Autumn's Pelican dropships and Longsword fighters, along with all the vehicles. The Pelicans would actually get most of the people off the Pillar of Autumn. The escape pods were just for personnel who couldn't get to the hangars in time, of which there would be quite a few. And for Marines who were stuck fighting boarding parties. Like Montag.

When Montag was only twenty meters from the doorway leading to his objective, that very door exploded. Covenant soldiers started pouring out through the doorway, and a hail of plasma flew towards the Marines. The Marines stopped short, raised their weapons and fired. Brave, but they were caught out in the open and under normal circumstances they would be cut to pieces while the technicians escaped. However, a siren blared and the doors started closing, prompting the Marines to scram for the nearest exit.

Montag scrambled for a door to his left, along with three other Marines, dodging plasma bolts. The door was five meters away, and closing fast. Four meters, three meters, two meters.

The Marines barely made it. Two got through with the door closing centimeters behind them. The third was hit by plasma fire, slowed down enough that he never made it. The door slammed shut, but Montag could still hear the guy screaming on the other side, pleading with them to open the door. He must have hit the control panel, because the door started to cycle. His screaming abruptly stopped, prompting Montag to lock the door.

The other Marines and techies stared at each other, aghast at what just happened. Montag ignored them and leaned against the door, listening.

He turned to assess his comrades, "resources" as he thought of them. Two Marines with assault rifle and shotgun. A single Techie with a M6D pistol. Montag scowled. The Marine would have to waste time protecting the Techie, and the Techie 'might' actually be of some help in navigating the ship. When he wasn't hiding in dark corners crying his eyes out.

"So, what do we do now?" One of the Marines asked. She had dark skin, probably of strong Latin American ancestry, and was holding an assault rifle. Montag's HMD identified her as PFC Da Vega.

The other Marine stepped forward. He was holding a shotgun and looked vaguely Norwegian. His tag identified him as PFC Kanoff. "We can't get to the shuttles; they were on the other side of the hall."

Montag considered his choices. They were cut off from the shuttles, and the hall was already crawling with Covenant boarding crew. Not only that, but safety protocols required the agressive filling of the area with stored carbon-dioxide. The Covenant in the hall would die of asphyxiation, but without breathable atmosphere, the Marines couldn't go through there. They would have to find another way off the ship.

Montag reached over and grabbed the Techie's datapad. Manipulating the XPAQ's controls, he called up a floor plan of the Pillar of Autumn. He studied the diagrams for a second, and then tossed the XPAQ back at the Techie. Without a word to anybody, he checked the Rifle and ran down the hallway, disappearing through a darkened doorway.

Da Vega looked at Kanoff. "Did he just leave us?"

Kanoff muttered an obscenity.

Silence reigned in the hallway for a second. Then Kanoff asked: "He seems to know where he's going. Should we try and catch up with him, or should we find our own way off?"

The lights flickered and died, plunging the hallway into darkness.

"Let's catch up."

* * *

**Waste Transit Corridor D, 0129 Hours**

Montag hurried through the hallway, navigating in complete darkness. Well, not complete darkness. Montag had the Rifle out with his HMD synced to the scope. In the dark, he had the option of using Infrared or Nightvision. The obvious choice would be the Nightvision, but Montag had selected Infrared. He had seen too many Marines blinded by sudden bursts of NV enhanced light, only to be cut down seconds later by the Covenant.

Infrared, on the other hand, made the enemies really stand out from their surroundings, and plasma fire showed brightly, but didn't leave him blind. It rendered the world in a lovely pallet of reds and oranges, which didn't nullify the eye's ability to see things in the dark.

He was coming to a T junction, with the hall running off in either direction. Montag slowed down, recognizing the junction from the map on the XPAQ. He got down on his stomach and inched for the junction, then peered around.  
A locked door to his left.

And three Elites to his right.

They were hunched together ten meters away, and appeared to be talking together. Human bodies lay at their feet, burns and blood splatters evident.

Montag was about to crawl out and engage the Covenant when the PA system crackled.

_"Combat teams on decks five through nine, fall back to secondary defensive positions."_

The Elites jumped at the unexpected interruption to their argument, and Montag himself had been startled. The enemy was wary now, and were looking up and down the hallway. Montag cursed himself for losing the element of surprise. Silently, he cocked the Rifle, pulled out a fragmentation grenade, and quietly got to his feet. Then he stepped out into the open.

The Red one (was he really red? It was hard to tell in Infrared) was the first to notice him. It pointed at him and shouted a warning instead of drawing its plasma rifle. Big mistake.

Montag primed the grenade and slammed it against the wall. An internal timer began to count down, and the grenade had been manufactured to explode half a second after impact.

He threw the grenade, ducked back and covered his face with his arms. The grenade exploded in midair, and the blast shredded the shields on the Elites. Montag felt the overpressure wash over him, and shrapnel cut his exposed flesh. Without pausing, he stood and aimed the Rifle.

Using the Sync option on his HMD to show him exactly where the weapon was pointed, Montag fired the Rifle from the hip, placing a bullet right through the Red Elite's mouth, blowing out the back of its head. The Elite fell backwards.

The Blue Elites already had their plasma rifles up. However, their night vision had been ruined by the explosion, and both were dropped with headshots within seconds.

Montag lowered his rifle and walked over to the Elites, bending down to gather dropped plasma grenades. He stuffed the plasma grenades into six pouches sewn onto his right leg. Each pouch was large enough to hold one grenade. Non-regulations, of course, but very handy. He rose and started walking down the hall at the same time that Kanoff, Da Vega, and the Techie ran around the corner behind him.

Montag didn't see a large shadow part from the dark recesses of the hall and come up behind him.

Kanoff and Da Vega did.

In unison, Kanoff and Da Vega raised their weapons and fired at the stealthy Elite. Da Vega's assault rifle quickly brought down the Elite within seconds, aided by Kanoff's shotgun. The Elites shields flared and lit the whole hallway, before dying out. It turned toward it's attackers, firing plasma wildly.

BOOM! Kanoff's shotgun tore off the Elites head. The body collapsed, with bright blue blood gushing out of the severed neck.

Montag, who had barely gotten the Rifle around in time to defend himself, shrugged and again turned his back on the other Marines and walked off into the darkness.

This was too much for Da Vega. "Hey, we're coming with you, you ungrateful sunuva..."

Montag whirled around to face her, a look of intense rage flashing across his face. Surprised, Da Vega stopped in her tracks.

The sniper advanced on her until they were face to face. Montag's visible eye bored through Da Vega, and then darted down to the dead Elite, then back to Da Vega. His expression was unreadable behind his HMD. His movements were slow, mechanical, deadly.

After a long moment of silence, Montag finally spoke.

"Keep up or stay behind."

Then all four of them ran down the hallway to their destination.

* * *

**Deck B, outside of Elevator 6. 0131 Hours  
**

_"Ops personnel on decks nine through twelve, report to evac stations now." _The Captain ordered over the PA system

There were multiple elevators throughout the Autumn, each one connected to the service corridors, and each one leading to the hangars. This made moving supplies that much easier. It was also the fastest way to the hangars in case of an evacuation.

Montag felt a surge of anger as he realized the Covenant had occupied this one.

He and the rest of the troupe were hiding behind a stack of crates, not ten meters from the entrance to the elevator room. The room was octagonal, thirty meters across, and had four entrances from four directions, and large entrances at that. The Covenant were hard pressed to secure them all, but if the Marines started a firefight, then the Covenant would focus on them entirely. And there were about fifty of them in there, mostly Grunts, but with a smattering of Elites.

Making things easier was the fact that Montag, Kanoff, and Da Vega had met up with three more Marines, accompanied by eight Techies. They were now ten meters down the hall from the starboard entrance to the elevator room, huddled behind some crates.

"We're done over, man. No way are we getting through that," one of the Techies muttered. Montag glared at him, and the Techie backed up, fearing for his life. Montag turned back to survey the room. The room was full of crates, but the Covenant had pushed these against the walls, and had piled the bodies of dead Marines against the wall too.

Bodies…

Montag turned back to the Marines. "Stay here," he said. "I'll be back."

He ran back down the hall, leaving the others staring at him as he retreated. Kanoff looked at Da Vega, shrugged, and said. "Who does he think he is; the Terminator?"

* * *

**AN: Another chapter up. As you can see, Gui Montag is very antagonistic towards his fellow Marines, a result of his rather interesting combat record. Please review and tell me what I am doing right/wrong, or just what you think.**

**And yes, Mr. 125, the name Gui Montag is a slight nod to StarCraft, the greatest RTS ever. However, both this Gui Montag and the one on StarCraft were inspired by Guy Montag, a fireman in the book by Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451. I suggest you read it.**

**And like his namesakes, Gui Montag has a slight fixation with flamethrowers and incendiary devices. **


	4. Under Seige

**_He's the typical Marine fresh out of boot camp. Young, idealistic, and he's positive that he'll live. Like everybody else, he probably plans on getting his four years in, collect several dozen kills, and then go back home to his sweetheart. And just like everybody else, he'll be cured of his idealistic notions the very minute he is under fire._**

**_I hate this part of the job.  
_**

**_Sergeant T. Clancy_**

* * *

**Maintenance Corridors outside Elevator 6.**

Montag slung the Rifle across his back and ran into the maintenance access corridors. It was dark and cramped, but he didn't mind that as much as he hated the difficulty in navigating. The only illumination he had was the faint red light from the camera on his HMD. Twice he had banged his head on projecting pipes. He took a left, then a right, and then he went straight. He could see a door ahead, but there was no light on the other side.

Montag stepped up to the door and looked through. It was the elevator room alright, but the Covenant had pushed the crates almost to the wall, and the crates were piled higher than the doorway. He opened the doorway and got on his hands and knees. If he wormed his way between the wall and the crates, there was enough room for him to get through.

Montag snorted. There was a pervasive smell of cooked ham. The smell he had long associated with plasma burns on human flesh.

After crawling five meters, he saw a pile of bodies. Marine bodies. The Covenant had heaped the bodies along the walls like so much trash.

He saw movement to his right. The bodies were piled in a corner between the crates and the wall, but were still in plain sight of the Covenant. To stay hidden, he would have to stay low and move slowly…

Montag crawled up to the pile and began searching. The corpses were still warm, but limp and clammy. Blood was smeared everywhere, oozing from needler wounds, and there was a strong odor of burnt flesh. Digging through the corpses was enough to make even experienced Marines gag, get sick, or puke. The sniper barely noticed.

It wasn't like he hadn't done this before.

Montag found what he was looking for. A rocket launcher, smeared with blood, but fully loaded. He lifted a crewwoman's arm pulled it out of the pile. And found that the owner was still holding on to it. At least his hand was. The hand was burned off at the wrist and had a death grip on the trigger.

Montag grasped the hand firmly and pulled. Nothing happened. He knew better than to try and pry the fingers off. If someone has a death grip on something, then there was only one thing to do.

He pulled out the Knife and started slicing away at the knuckles. They finally broke off, and the rocket launcher was free. Montag doubted he would have nightmares about this action. He had done worse things before.

Dragging the launcher with him, he crawled back between the crates and back through the Maintenance access corridors.

* * *

It had been a full four minutes since Montag had left, and the Marines were getting restless. Should they attack, should they keep waiting, or should they retreat? They were debating this when Montag showed up with a blood splattered rocket launcher.

He shoved the rocket launcher into Kanoff's hands, and then outlined his plan.

"In sixty seconds, one of you is going to throw a frag grenade into that room." Montag said. "They will return fire, and probably bunch up at the doorway. When they do, Kanoff wipes them out with the rocket launcher. I'll circle around and slaughter any Elites that hang behind. Hoo-ah?"

The others nodded in assent. There were a few holes in the plan, but it was probably the best available. Besides, Montag's tone left no room for argument. Kanoff was grinning at the chance to unleash some rocket propelled whoop-arse on the Covenant. If only he had seen the rocket launcher three minutes ago, he would probably be going into convulsions.

"Good, let's do it."

* * *

Da Vega started a countdown from sixty seconds on her HMD. She already had the grenade out, and the others were priming their weapons. Even the Techies had their M6D's out, although it was unlikely that they would actually use them. Creeping to the edge of the crates they were hiding behind, she took a peek at the Covenant. There were three Jackals, five Grunts, and an Elite standing in the doorway, but there were many more, further in the room.

* * *

Montag ran down the Maintenance access corridors, panting heavily. Needless to say, it was quite dark in there, and it almost made him claustrophobic. He was a sniper, for Earth's sakes. A sniper is supposed to operate out in the open, on solid ground; not in tight corridors on a derelict cruiser. Ahead he could see the green status light on the door. He opened the door, held the Rifle in his hands, and bent down to crawl through the crates.

* * *

00:00:02:05

00:00:01:00

00:00:00:00

Da Vega stepped around the crates and threw the grenade. It arced gracefully through the air and clattered to the feet of the Elite. She raised her assault rifle and fired, distracting the Grunts and Jackals long enough to prevent them from jumping away.

The grenade exploded, masticating the Grunts and Jackals, while the Elite staggered backwards. Da Vega lined her rifle up and squeezed the trigger, hoping she had more bullets than the Elite had shields. The alien was tough; it had already recovered from the explosion and brought its plasma rifle up in a two-handed grip. Bullets sparked and ricocheted off its shields, and they collapsed before it could hit Da Vega.

Elites were tough, and their armor was tougher, but rifle-caliber rounds were hitting home on its face and throat. The alien snapped back and collapsed in a bleeding mess.

* * *

**Elevator Room**

Montag was crawling through the crates when he heard the grenade go off. Doubling his pace, he reached the heap of bodies and peeked over.

There were three Red Elites in the center of the room, directing the troops. One, standing behind the other two, appeared to be the leader. At the very least, he was giving the commands while the other two were lining up shots with their plasma rifles. Using the Rifle was out of the question; it took at least two shots to put a single Red Elite down, and that was when they were 300 meters away, when their attempts to dodge were easily accounted for.

Montag reached down to the pockets on his right leg and pulled out a plasma grenade. He primed it, aimed briefly, and then hurled it.

The plasma grenade landed squarely on the command Elite's back and stuck, warping the shields with its heat. The Elite paused, then roared and writhed around, desperately trying to pull the plasma grenade off. The other two realized what was wrong too late. The fastest one just barely managed to jump clear.

BANG!

* * *

**Hallway**

Kanoff looked around the edge of the crates. The Covenant were bunching up at the entrance, just as planned. However, they were also firing barrage after barrage of plasma bolts, steadily eroding the Marine's cover. If Kanoff exposed himself long enough to aim and fire a rocket, the other Marines would have to drag his dead carcass back behind the crates.

There was an explosion behind the Covenant, and the Covenant were thrown into disarray. At least enough of them stopped firing long enough to assess the new threat to their rear.

"_Cover me!_" Kanoff yelled, and then he rolled out into the open. The other Marines broke cover and fired their assault rifles, distracting the Covenant while Kanoff aimed the rocket launcher.

When they are rookies, Marines are instructed to always, before even looking down the sights, to check what ammo they were carrying in a rocket launcher. All was well and good if you had seeker nosecones or proximity fuses, but if you had dumb rockets, all you could do was aim them at the floor near the enemy combatants, unless the enemy is a vehicle heading in your direction or a stationary target. Driven by training, Kanoff aimed the rocket at the feet of the defending Covenant.

* * *

**Body pile, Elevator Room**

Montag drew the Handgun and drew a bead on the Red Elite that had jumped clear. He aimed for the body. When bringing down an Elites shields, Montag always aimed for the torso. The torso was easier to hit than the head, especially when rapidly firing the Handgun. He only aimed for the head when making a killing blow or facing a particularly slow opponent.

BOOM! The Elite staggered back.

BOOM! The bullet hit the Elite square on the chest. Its shields flared

BOOM! The Elites shields flared one last time and died. The armor sparked as the bullet impacted on bare metal.

BOOM! A large dent appeared on the Elite's helmet. The Elite fell to its knees, and then slumped over.

The other Elite that had been in the blast radius of the grenade had picked itself off the ground and pulled out its plasma rifle. Bolts of plasma whizzed past Montag as he ducked for cover.

There was an explosion at the doorway the Covenant were clustered around. Grunts and Jackals flew everywhere, not always in one piece. The Covenant were down to half their numbers.

Montag aimed at the last remaining Red Elite. Its shields were down, and it had heavy amounts of carbonization on its armor from the plasma grenade blast.

BOOM! The bullet impacted on its forehead, leaving a large dent. The Elite dropped its weapon and charged Montag, running and leaping the last five meters.

BOOM! Montag fired, but missed. Instead of the chest shot he was hoping for, the bullet smashed into the Elite's left hoof, shattering it.

The Elite was almost directly over Montag, snarling and screaming what sounded like obscenities in the Covenant language.

BOOM! The bullet smashed through the Elite's mouth in mid-jump, killing the Elite. This did nothing, however, to detour the Elite's body from its path. It continued to sail through the air...

And landed directly on Montag.

* * *

**Hallway**

Kanoff glanced around the crates. His first rocket had killed two dozen Grunts and Jackals, and another five had fell to Marine assault rifles, leaving the floor at the entrance of the elevator room one bloody mess. The rest had learned quickly, hiding on either side of the door, breaking cover briefly to shoot at the Marines. For the most part, they were hidden, under cover, beyond reach.

He aimed his last rocket at the floor just inside the room and fired. The rocket streaked down the hall, missed the side of the doorway by a few centimeters, and impacted the ground just a meter inside the room.

BOOM! He could hear the cries of a dozen Covenant caught in the rocket's killzone. He dropped the now useless launcher and dove behind the crates to avoid an answering salvo of plasma.

Had he stayed out in the open just a minute longer, he would have seen a Blue Elite break cover and run down through the hall to the Marines. Yelling a challenge in its native language, it vaulted over the crates and skidded to a halt.

Time seemed to slow down. The Marines had been caught off guard. Two had been injecting biofoam into a third. Da Vega had been reloading her assault rifle, and Kanoff had just dropped his weapon. Everything seemed to be in slow motion; the Elite hunched over in midair, bringing its plasma rifle around to aim at the Marines, its cry of triumph ringing in the Marines' ears.

Up to this point in the firefight, the Navy crewmen has been useless, content to hide in cover and let the people with the armor and the automatic weapons do the fighting. They must have sensed that their lives were on the line, because they all drew their M6D pistols and fired.

Despite what the UNSC-made propaganda movies claim, the M6 is not a handheld howitzer, but merely a humble sidearm. It is believed that an Elite's shields can shrug off two full clips without recharging, even if the user shot with one hundred percent accuracy. While empirical evidence to support that number is sadly lacking, the absence of soldiers returning from the field to report that they downed and killed an Elite with their sweet humble M6E is rather telling.

Sure, there were a lot of videos showing Spartans dealing death and destruction with M6Es. But they are _SPARTANS_, and not only did they have inhuman accuracy, but they had Covenant shields; they can afford to be hit by a few plasma bolts. Joe Marine can't.

Fortunately, the crewmen were armed with the M6D, the more powerful handguns usually reserved for officers and Special Ops, and each of these guns was loaded for bear with 12.7mm explosive ammunition. Most of the bullets hit the Elite, shredding its protective shields. It attempted to sidestep the bullets, raised its plasma rifle and fired at the technicians, calmly incapacitating one with shots to the stomach and head before moving onto the next.

The technicians kept firing, pumping round after round into the Elite. Its shields flickered and died, letting the bullets through to gouge out holes in the Elite's armor.

BOOM! Kanoff finally got his shotgun up and fired and fired. The Elite's head snapped to the side, and it crumpled in a heap, twitching convulsively.  
Or maybe not. Its hand plucked a plasma grenade from its belt, ignited it, and let it roll across the ground, glowing bright blue.

* * *

**Starboard Body Pile, Elevator Room**

Montag came to, not knowing how long he had been knocked out. All he saw was red, and he could barely breathe. As his vision cleared, he found out why.

The Red Elite's carcass had landed on him, weighing Montag down and pinning his arms to his sides. It was lying across Montag, so Montag's head and legs were sticking out. But despite Montag's best efforts, he could not move.

All he could feel was warm, dead bodies and cool, hard metal.  
All he could see was dead bodies, the ceiling, and the Elite.  
All he could smell was burnt flesh and Elite blood.

And he heard something. Heavy, labored breathing; something scrambling over dead bodies.

Then, a Grunt appeared over the pile of bodies to Montag's left, holding a needler and muttering to itself. Spying Montag, it gave a cry and began speaking. Montag's translator began translating the gibberish, but since the translators issued to Marines worked mostly on battlefield commands, most of what the Grunt was saying came out as gibberish.

"Elite Major big dead," the Grunt yapped. Then it started speaking some gibberish. Needless to say, the translator needed a bit more work. Then the Grunt said: "Elite killer trap-stopped! Gibberish."

Montag slowly reached down to his right leg and pulled a cool glassy sphere from its pocket. His hand was now out from underneath the Red Elite and had some freedom of movement.

"Gibberish. Gibberish. Untranslatable." Montag's translator wasn't working very well on what the Grunt was saying. He couldn't understand a thing it was saying.

"Die, Elite Killer!" the Grunt snarled.

That Montag understood. He primed the grenade, and, with a flick of his wrist, threw it at the Grunt.

* * *

**Hallway**

Everyone stared at the plasma grenade the Elite had dropped. It was just out of reach. If anyone tried to run over, grab it and throw it away, the grenade would probably go off in their hands. Even if it didn't, the grenade would probably stick to the person who grabbed it. If they let it sit there, it would take them all out. A lose-lose situation for the poor sap who grabbed the grenade.

Kanoff surged to his feet and swung the shotgun like a golf club, releasing it and letting it fly with the grenade firmly attached to the butt. The grenade detonated a split-second later. Chunks of metal and synthetic stock pelted the Marines, but at least they were beyond its blast radius.

Everyone sat still, reflecting on how close of a call it had been.

* * *

**Body pile, Elevator Room**

The Plasma grenade arced through the air.

And landed on the Grunts face.

Montag watched it run over the pile of bodies and disappear. Seconds later, there was an explosion in the middle of the room. Pausing only for a moment, he then started wriggling out from underneath the dead Elite.

* * *

**Hallway**

"There can't be very many Covenant left," Da Vega said. "On count of three, Kanoff and I throw two grenades, then we charge. Techies stay behind until the coast is clear, then we ride the elevator to the hangar."

Everyone nodded in assent. They couldn't stay here much longer.

"One,"

"Two,"

"_Three_!"

Da Vega and Kanoff broke cover and threw the grenades. The grenades arced through the air and bounced into the Elevator room. There was an immediate cry, and then an explosion.

_"GO GO GO!"_

The Marines charged down the ten meters of hallway and into the elevator room. Assault rifles roared and shotguns barked, butchering Grunts and Jackals.

A Red Elite leapt into the fray, smashing two Marines in the head. It picked up the second one, using him for cover while its shields regenerated. It spun to face the rest of the Marines, plasma rifle up and firing.

The Elite's head jerked, and the right side of its face exploded. It immediately crumpled to the ground.

Da Vega looked over to the left side of the room, and saw Montag climbing over a pile of dead bodies. "Check those Marines," he called. "And get the Techies ready to go."

"Private Dewitt is dead, sir. Private Ivanovich is still out, but ok."

"Carry Ivanovich to the elevator. We're leaving."

The elevators were merely an octagonal part of the floor with a control panel and freight gantry next to them, intended to ferry cargo and spare parts from the storage sections to the interior of the ship. Everyone assembled on the elevator, and Kanoff pressed the button for the hangar. It was designed for freight, not the comfort of its passengers, and accelerated so fast it made Da Vega's legs hurt. One leg in particular.

"Passing deck C," a neutral female voice on the elevator announced.

Everyone reloaded their weapons. God knows what was waiting for them in the hangar.

"Passing deck B."

Everyone was nervous. It had been twenty minutes since they had left the armory. Were there still Pelicans left? Were the Covenant already there?

"Passing deck A."

The elevator began to slow down. Montag had holstered the Handgun and was holding the Rifle. Let the Covenant come.

"Now arriving at the hangar. Please disembark carefully and have a nice day,"

* * *

**AN: So Gui Montag and Company are home free. Or are they? Review and tell me what you think, or what I am doing wrong.  
**

** Oh, and by the way, StarCraft 2 was announced, so that's what delayed this chapter. I CAN'T WAIT!**


	5. Exodus

**He's just like the rest of us, really. After his first encounter with the Covenant, he's scared to death of combat, conflict, loud noises, you name it. He's got a grandfather and a girlfriend at home that he's constantly writing to. A pretty nice guy, once you get to know him.**

**Private Jimmy Rayndar **

* * *

**Hangar**

The Marines looked around. The section of the hangar the were in was deserted. Plenty of vehicles, even a few Pelicans, no humans.  
One of the crewmen checked his datapad and shrugged. "I think we missed our flight."

"Yeah," Kanoff agreed. "Those Covenant we fought through probably came down through the elevator. Which means that they came through here. It was either deserted already, or they killed everyone left... Don't suppose everyone knows how to fly a Pelican?"

"Good to see that everyone's taking this so calmly," Montag muttered as he activated his radio. How much calmer would they be if they realized that the small tremors they felt were the impacts of ship-grade plasma weaponry? "This is Lance Corporal Gui Montag, calling any Pelican or Albatross pilots still in the Pillar of Autumn's ventral hangar. I have fourteen people needing evac."

A pause, then "Lance Corporal Montag, this is Echo Four-Zero-Niner; acknowledged. I repeat, acknowledged. Bravo Two-Forty-eight and I will wait for you. We are warming up the engines, and it looks like you should be close enough to hear them."

Da Vega pointed to a pair of alcoves, each with a Pelican nestled inside. The contours of the hangar made it difficult to tell where the engine sounds were coming from, but the glow from the exhaust was all the hint they needed.

When they reached the Pelicans, eight Techies and three Marines piled into Echo Four-Zero-Nine. It took off, leaving them and following the path of the first one. Montag, Da Vega, Kanoff, and another crewman ran for the other Pelican, fifty meters away. The Pelican was attempting unsuccessfully to 'mate' a Warthog into the lift. They were only twenty meters away when the pilot radioed Montag.

"Corporal Montag, takeoff may be delayed. I am currently experiencing some techni-"

The cockpit of the Pelican exploded in a flash of green light. The Marines stood dumbfounded as the Pelican crashed to the ground. Montag saw a Marine leap out of the Pelican, covered in flames, thrashing and screaming. Montag blinked, and the Marine was gone. Just as if he had never existed.

Montag suddenly heard the whining of Banshees as they entered the atmosphere in the hangar. Quickly, he ordered the Marines back to the elevator. Bolts of plasma were falling all around them, and the lead Banshee zoomed overhead, turning back to make another strafing run. A fuel rod crashed into the deck meters from them, searing and blistering their skin.

The four of them barely reached the elevator alive.

Montag pushed the button for Deck A.

"Station A has been compromised. Please make a different selection," the voice said with annoying calmness.

Montag cursed and pressed the button for Deck B. The Banshee had turned around and was making another strafing run. The other three airships were closing in.

"Please confirm selection."

Montag cursed even louder and pressed the button for Deck B. Bolts of plasma were raining down on them. Even more Banshees were bearing down on them.

The Elevator suddenly descended at a gut wrenching pace, and not a moment too soon. Seconds later, multiple fuel rods struck the top of the elevator shaft, raining debris down on them.

"Passing Deck A"

The Marines were just as surprised as the Covenant were when they suddenly saw each other, but the Covenant recovered first. The elevator continued to descend, with plasma bolts and grenades flying over the Marines heads.

"Arriving at Deck B. Please disembark carefully and have a nice day."

The elevator room was empty. There were no crates, and no bodies. However, the walls had bullet holes, scorch marks, and huge craters carved in them. Blood splatters were everywhere, some of it human, most of it not. Bullet casings, spent shells, and discarded ammo clips were everywhere. But what of the bodies?

This question was on everyone's mind. Silence reigned supreme until Montag turned to the lone crewman they had with them.

"Jonesey, how far to the closest lifeboat bay?"

Jonesey started; surprised that Montag would call on him for support. He pulled his X-PAQ out of its pouch and powered it up. "That way, three hundred meters. We better hurry."

Montag was already on the move. The others ran to catch up.

* * *

**Service Corridor 4, Deck B, just outside of Forward Machine Shop**

Montag ducked behind a crate, feeling an intense heat sear across his back. Not even a hit. A glancing hit and he wouldn't be standing. A direct hit from an overcharged plasma bolt, and his nerves would be too fried to feel anything. He turned towards the two Marines and the technician hiding on the other side of the hall. The Marines were at least fighting. The technician wasn't doing much that would get him out of danger. Useless.

Signaling to the other Marines, Montag made a throwing gesture. Da Vega nodded and pulled out a grenade.

Montag and the Marine dove into the center of the corridor and threw the grenades. There was a flash and a loud bang as both of grenades went off. Five Grunts standing where the grenades landed were killed instantly.

"How are you two doing on ammo?" Montag asked, advancing on the dead Covenant.

"Getting low," Kanoff answered. Da Vega shrugged.

"Then give your ammo to Da Vega. Use this instead," Montag reached down and a needler. He tossed it to Kanoff.

Kanoff and Da Vega did as Montag said. As a lance corporal he outranked them, and he had the air of experience.

As he was getting up, Montag glanced out a viewport and paused. The others looked where he was looking and saw what he was staring at. Kanoff gasped. Da Vega stopped breathing.

Out in the void was an immense ringworld that curved up out sight. It was enormous, dwarfing the Covenant cruisers. Not just dwarfing them; the ring appeared to be thousands of times larger than the warships.

Montag activated the live video feed from the Rifle's scope and scanned the Ringworld. Then, and only then, he got an idea of just how large it was. Through the scope, he saw deserts, jungles, oceans, forests, and mountains, even weather patterns. Mountain ranges perhaps hundreds of kilometers long were scattered across the Ring. Rivers perhaps as long as the Mississippi or the Volga ran along the circumference. The sheer scale of the Ring seemed incomprehensible, infinitely beyond the engineering of Human or Covenant. It was beautiful

Montag then sent the video feed from the Rifle to the Marines HUDs and heard them gasp. They continued to look at the Ring for a minute, surveying everything from a large hurricane forming over the ocean to landmasses with plains and mountains, deserts and canyons. Montag was the first to break the silence.

"Jonesey, how far to the lifeboats?" The technician looked up from the video feed on his datapad, licking his lips nervously. He consulted his datapad.

"Another two hundred meters, if they don't launch before we get there."

An explosion shook the hall. Glancing down both ways, Montag saw the hall fill with smoke fifty meters ahead of them. In the haze, there were the silhouettes of Grunts, Elites, and something larger.

"Get in there, go go go!" Montag yelled, running for the nearby machine shop. Kanoff and Da Vega ran with him, but Jonesey hesitated. He was rooted to the spot, frozen with fear.

Montag pulled the Handgun out and aimed it at Jonesey. _Put the gun to his head. Pull the trigger._

"Move it!" Montag yelled.

Jonesey complied.

They dove through the door as plasma hailed around them. Montag punched the door release, and the door hissed shut.

Montag immediately reached into his backpack and pulled out grenades, a roll of duct tape and what looked like carbon fiber fishing line.

"Sir, what are you doing?" Da Vega asked.

"The Covies saw us; ergo they are going to come after us. I'm going to make them regret that." Montag snapped. Two plasma grenades were secured to the lower corners of the doorway, and a fragmentation grenade was taped to the doorjam, so that the spoon was depressed by the door. When Montag was satisfied that it wouldn't roll out of place, he armed it and rapped the fuze with the Handgun. He was done in forty seconds, slower than usual.

The machine shop was larger than two Gravball fields, with widely spaced machinery of every type, from fabricating equipment to drills and saws, even a rapid prototyper in the corner. At the front of the room was a large elevator that lead to the Hangar. In the middle were some Warthogs in various states of disrepair and damage from the Covenant attack at Reach. A few, however, had not been taken apart yet. Convenient.

"Who drives?"

* * *

**Inside Forward Machine Shop**

The lights on the door flashed green, and the door parted to let the Covenant in. As the door slid into its recess, the spoon on the hand grenade flicked open, triggering the fuse. Grunts flooded through, only to be pulverized as the grenades exploded. Caught between two shockwaves, their bodies shredded. The heat and overpressure was sufficient to rip open their methane tanks, cremating what was left of them.

Then two things stepped through the doorway and marched through the flames. Two huge things. Two VERY huge things. Montag had seen this species before, but he did not care to reflect on the carnage filled memories they dominated. And he had never willingly engaged them.

He struggled to describe them. Perhaps the best way to describe them would be to call them Sonic the Hedgehog on steroids. Lots of steroids. And huge battleship-plate shields and a plasma cannon for an arm. Perhaps the worst thing about them was that you never saw them alone.

"Drive," he yelled to Da Vega, who was obviously driving the Warthog. Montag himself was in the passenger seat cradling his beloved Rifle. Kanoff was manning the gauss gun in back, and Jonesey was huddled right behind the drivers seat, holding on for dear life. Da Vega accelerated the Warthog, gunning the vehicle towards the door.

The STHOS jumped out of the way, and the Warthog kept going, sliding on Grunt entrails and out the door. Da Vega spun the wheel, crashing the Warthog broadside into the opposite wall, and crushing an Elite who had not moved fast enough. Da Vega gunned the engine again, and the Warthog shot forward, down the hall toward the lifeboat bay. The section of wall where they had crashed seconds earlier disappeared in a green flash. Kanoff swiveled the gauss gun around and started firing at the STHOS coming out of the machine shop.

* * *

**Lifeboat bay B-4-3**

Sergeant Morris was convinced he and his men were going to die. They were pinned down behind a structural cross-bracing with a trio of Red Elites firing away to keep them pinned down. The Marines were out of grenades, and the Elites were between them and the lifeboats. Sooner or later, they would try and flank the Marines, or use their own grenades.

He was going to give the order to retreat, but suddenly there was a roaring sound. Morris paused to listen. Strange, it almost sounded like…

There was a crash and an Elite's roar of pain. Morris stood up, staring an Elite in the face. The Elite's body was crushed between the cross-bracing and, of all things, a Warthog. The Warthog's machine gun spat, killing the last Elite, then everyone in the Warthog got out.

"You alright, sir?" Kanoff asked, dismounting the Warthog.

"Starting to believe in God," Morris replied, "You guys came in the nick of time."

"We thought you guys could use some help."

"More like Devine Intervention," Morris said, kicking the head of an Elite crushed beneath the Warthog.

Everyone, well almost everyone laughed. The one who had been in the passenger seat with a sniper rifle simply boarded the lifeboat.

The Marines milled about for a few seconds, trying to find out who was qualified for flight duty. Then the whole ship shook violently, making the Marines fall to the ground. The lights flickered and went out. Everyone ran into the lifeboat.

"Anyone in the mood for Roadkill Grill?" Da Vega joked as she fastened the restraint harness.

"What, Eviscerated Elite?" Kanoff laughed as the lifeboat launched.

"Something like that." Da Vega smiled.

"Did you see the look on the Elite's face before you hit it? It was priceless!"

"I wouldn't know about that, I was too busy running it over."

"Hey, no problem. It's saved on my HUD cam."

"You two need a hotel room or something?" one of the other Marines joked.

Da Vega looked over at Montag "What do you think tastes better, Montag, Eviscerated Elite or Cream de la Grunt?"

Montag stared at her, shrugged, and muttered "Grunt's inedible."

He went back to checking his equipment. Back to his normal, stoic self. Back behind the Wall.

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter up. Please R/R on your way out, and tell me what I am doing wrong or doing right. Theres nothing I like better than your feedback.**

**The plot should accelerate from here, with us seeing a little more about Montag.**


	6. Impact

**_Frost burns over sixty percent of his skin... a collapsed lung, failing heart, and all of his ribs cracked... Multiple fractures in his skull, broken collarbones, slipped disk, and ripped tendons all over... What the hell did he pick a fight with?_**

**_Doctor Alan Konovolov, Surgeon for the New Petersburg Military Hospital, New Siberia_**

* * *

**0155 hours, 9th October, 2551 (Military Calendar)  
****Uncharted System, coastline on unidentified object  
Unidentified object**

The lifeboat was shaking uncomfortably. Some of the Marines were joking around, but there was a level of tension underneath. Was the lifeboat supposed to shake this much? Were they in trouble? Only the pilot knew just how much trouble they were in, and nobody wanted to ask. They just checked their restraining harnesses nervously, making sure they were secure.

The pilot was worried. Very worried. They were over a large body of water, maybe an ocean, and he could just see the coastline. They would not however, be able get to land. At their current angle and rate of descent, they would crash just a hundred meters short.

Everyone had already ceased to talk, and all heard the pilot yell "brace for impact!"

There was a jolt, accompanied with a roaring sound as they hit the water. Then a shrieking sound and they were pressed into their seats as the lifeboat lifted into the air once again. What had happened? Call it a miracle, but they had landed at a shallow enough angle to skim off the surface of the ocean, at the loss of the lower air brakes. Just like a child skipping rocks on a lake…

The lifeboat flew through the air once again, and hit the shoreline. The loss of the lower air brakes, however, had caused the lifeboat to become very unstable. Air resistance from the upper two air brakes had tilted it upward way too much, almost at a vertical angle. The rear end landed first, flipping the lifeboat over until the nose dug into the dirt. The lifeboat continued to tumble end over end, cartwheeling for almost a hundred meters before impacting on a cliff wall.

* * *

**Derelict Bumblebee, 0200 Hours**

Montag was the first to wake up. It was the warm blood running over his face that woke him, as well as the familiar metallic smell. He looked around, then grimaced as an ammoniac smell reached him. He saw that the person right next to him had lost control of his bladder, soiling his pants. Just about everyone else had thrown up all over the lifeboat. The human filth had pooled and collected on the... ceiling.

Ideally, the lifeboat was supposed to come in a controlled landing, landing right side up with hopefully little tilt. In this case however, the lifeboat was upside down, and tilted upwards at a fifty degree angle.

Montag slowly unbuckled himself and got down. His neck was really sore, probably a whiplash. Annoying, and it would be a distraction during battle. Avoiding the puke covered floor/ceiling, he climbed over the Marines, down to where the door was. It was buckled in from the impacts, and might not open. Even worse, the puke was sliding down the floor/ceiling and pooling near the door. It wasn't the light, creamy type either. No, it was the heavy duty, industrial weight, chunky stuff.

He tried the door handle, and then gave it a swift kick. It opened, but it only opened so far, letting the waste drain out. Prying it apart, Montag crawled through.

There was a reason why the door wouldn't open all the way. It was jammed against the ground. The lifeboat was leaning against the wall of the canyon, and, judging from the crater, it looked like they were lucky to have survived.

His radio squawked "Montag, what's the situation outside?"

"Don't count on getting the door open further, it's jammed against the ground." Montag surveyed the surroundings, "We appear to be in a small horseshoe canyon that opens out onto the sea. The Covenant will be here any minute. We better find cover." Those words were the most that Montag had spoken since before entering cyrosleep. A real stretch for him.

"Then scout around and find a decent place to hole up."

Montag didn't reply. That's what he was already doing.

* * *

**Derilect Bumblebee, 0203 Hours  
**

Private Kanoff woke up slowly. His head was throbbing, and he tasted blood.

"Hey, look who's up; it's sleeping beauty," one of the Marines said.

Kanoff looked around. Everyone had bruises, some were favoring their ankles, chests, heads, etc, and the guy to his right was moaning in pain, clutching his leg. It was probably broken. Kanoff then realized that he was upside down. Shaking his head, he unbuckled himself. He must really be out of it if it took him that long to realize he was upside down.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Our own Charles Lindbergh had a 'creative landing'" Sergeant Morris replied. He was standing on his seat, trying to get into the equipment locker without falling. "Speaking of which, how is Lindy doing?"

Da Vega crawled out of the cockpit. "Not good, sir. I don't think we should risk moving him."

Morris cursed. "Dirkens. Get your ratty up there before our pilot dies on us. Fix him up good, 'cause I want to kill him myself."

"Yes sir," a corpsman replied.

The Marines started loading up weapons and ammo that had spilled from the supplies locker. Anything they could carry, they took with them. It turned out to be quite a bit.

Dirkens crawled out of the cockpit. "Sir, the pilot has multiple breaks in his spine and a few cracked ribs. I don't think we can move him without killing him."

Morris scowled. "You don't think or you know we can't move him?"

Dirkens hesitated. "I know we can't move him."

Morris paused. No man gets left behind. The Covies were coming, and if they found the lifeboat, they would destroy it, with the pilot. But then again, the pilot was dead anyways if they moved him. This was what everyone hated about leadership. Making tough decisions. Deciding who should be left behind to die.

"Leave him here; we'll try and keep the Covies away from the ship."

Morris slid down the floor of the lifeboat to the door. He crawled through the door and saw Montag walking up.

"What's the situation? Have you found a place to hole up?

Montag slowly looked over his shoulder, then looked back at Morris. With insolent slowness, he replied.  
"There's a cave in the cliff wall fifty meters from us. An _artificial_ cave."

Morris thought for a moment. Was it a Covenant built cave? From what he had seen in orbit, the Covies had this ring more or less secured. Was it possible that they had built their glass-like structures upon it? For all he knew, THEY had built this doggoned ring. Morris made is decision quickly. He activated his radio and communicated with the Marines still in the lifeboat.

"Everyone, listen up! We've found a place to hole up and wait for evac. Pack as much ammo and supplies as you can. NOW GET MOVING!"

"What of the pilot?" Montag asked.

"Lindbergh? We can't move him; we'll have to come back for him."

"Hardly a Lindbergh," Montag said casually. "More of a Blagin." He started to chuckle to himself.

Morris pondered over Montag's words for a moment, and then followed Montag to the cave.

* * *

**Artificial Cave, South Side of Horseshoe Canyon, 0210 Hours  
**

The cave was, strategically speaking, a gift from god. Trees and undergrowth stopped growing nine meters away from the opening. The mouth of the cave consisted of a hallway that led down into an amphitheater-like room with a locked door. At the entrance, it widened out to about ten meters across, with a balcony a meter above the ground outside. There was a low wall on the balcony that they could duck behind. It was almost too perfect.

The locked door in the amphitheater made Morris uneasy. If there were Covenant behind that door, or if the door led to a place the Covenant could access, they could slaughter his men from behind. Therefore, the first thing he did was ordering his men to place some traps and alarms on it. To his surprise, the technician volunteered to do it. Turned out that Jonesy was an engineer. An engineer with a yellow streak.

The Marines set up their defenses at the mouth of the cave. They spaced themselves out every one and one half meters. Ammunition was placed in bags which were duct taped to the wall, where the Marines could easily access it. Primitive mines made from fragmentation grenades were buried outside the cave.

As soon as the Marines had dug in, Montag started to walk off.

"Montag. Where the hell do you think you are going?"

Montag looked back at the sergeant.

"Somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere." Then he turned back around and walked away.

* * *

**Artificial Cave, 0212 Hours  
**

The Canyon was horseshoe shaped, fifty meters wide and one hundred meters long. The right side, where the cave was, had few trees, mostly near the cave, but lots of shrubs that would be enough cover for a sniper. However, this area would soon be flooded with Covenant soldiers, and he would be quickly discovered if he hid there. The left side of the canyon had more trees, and consequently less undergrowth. The trees were tall, thin conifers, and would provide less protection than Montag would have liked. However, there wasn't enough room for Covenant dropships to land, and he had a better view of the cave from here. Therefore, this was the place where he would hide. This would be where he would make his stand.

Montag stopped in a small depression and lay down the Rifle with delicate care, pointing it at the cave on the other side of the canyon. For a moment he sat still, letting the photocell plates on his armor darken to adjust and blend in to the ambient light. Unholstering his Handgun, he laid it right next to the Rifle, within reach. He took off his backpack, and unrolled it. He unloaded what he needed and arranged the supplies with military precision. Having done this hundreds of times on more than a dozen worlds, he managed to get ready in less than twenty seconds. He could pack up in fifteen.

Cartridges of sniper ammo were lined up beside the Rifle, arranged by type. Disposable camouflage netting was strung up in front of him. A medical kit was set up, unopened, but there when he needed it.

Now came the hard part of a snipers job: waiting for the enemy.

Montag picked up a MRE and scowled in distaste. Meal Ready to Eat. Two lies for the price of one. All packed with nutrients, minerals, and bowel regulating bacteria, but lacking in the taste department. However, food was food, and he hadn't eaten since before cyrosleep. He tore off the wrapper and ate the contents, savoring the indescribable flavor and the sheetrock-like texture. Chewing slowly, he mulled over whether or not he should read to pass the time. He stared at the XBook nestled in its own pouch within the backpack, then decided against it. He needed to be ready at a minutes notice.

"Corporal Montag, do you read me?" his radio chirped.

Montag's radio consisted of an ear bud with a reed mike that snaked down from his ear to his mouth. Personally, Montag would like to kill the engineer who designed the darn thing. They were always getting lost when you were running, or falling out of your ear when you needed it most. But they were always there when your CO wanted to ask some inane questions.

"Yes?"

"We've contacted the TacComNet, and they're sending in a Pelican. Get ready to go in fifteen minutes."

"Sir, with all due respect, the Covies will find us in five."

"Hey, best they could do."

"They going to send some caskets too? How about a band to play Taps while we load the bodies onto the Pelican?"

There was a click as the sergeant switched from general broadcast to Montag's personal channel. Montag had broken the Unwritten Rule: Never talk about death when the Covenant were coming.

"Shut the Hell up! We've got no choice but to fight, and you're killing me here. We won't all survive this, but we can go out like Marines, and take some Covies out with us!"

Montag smiled grimly. "Untutored courage is useless in the face of educated plasma, sir."

The sergeant was about to give a sharp reply, when he heard a low droning sound. Everyone tensed. Many of them had never heard that sound before, being greenhorns, but they had all taken sound familiarization courses during boot camp, and they all recognized it as the sound of multiple inbound Covenant dropships.

* * *

**North side of horseshoe canyon, 0213 Hours  
**

Montag stared at the sky. There were a total of four dropships inbound, thankfully none towing vehicles. Four dropships full of Covenant would be very difficult to withstand. Four with vehicle support would be impossible. He froze, desperately hoping his camouflage was effective.

If the dropships saw him, he would probably have some Elites assigned to kill him.

One dropship broke off from the pack and flew in the general direction of the cave. The rest circled the canyon. Montag suddenly understood what they were doing. They knew the humans were entrenched here, but not much else, so they were sending in a suicide squad. The squad would die, but the rest would know how the Marines were fighting. How many were present. Whether they had heavy weapons. Where the snipers were. Montag gritted his teeth. If he shot at any Covenant, the rest would know there were snipers, and his general location. If he didn't shoot, the suicide squad would be able to do some damage, maybe get off a grenade.

He reached for his sniper rifle and got it into position. Removing the clip, he set it within reach, then grabbed another clip from his bag and loaded it.

Mark VI "Snooper" rounds were subsonic hollow-point bullets designed to take out your enemies without revealing your position. When they entered an enemy, the pressure in the hollow would cause the bullet to "mushroom;" to spread out and take out the internal organs, making up for the relatively low impact speed. The bullets were just fine for unarmored troops, but worked pathetically against armor. Their saving point was that they were subsonic, and therefore left no vapor trail.

The dropship hovered in the air, and for a moment, Montag wondered if it would land. Then it descended, landing twenty meters from the cave and disgorging its occupants. An Elite and seven Grunts. Easy. The Covenant were met instantly with a hail of bullets from the cave. The Grunts panicked, and the Elite did his best to rally them, with a small measure of success.

Montag set his sights on the Elite's head and pressed the trigger.

CRACK!

The Rifle bucked against the bipod, and the Elite staggered forward, his shields flaring.

CRACK!

The Elite staggered forward, his shields finally spent. The bullet sparked as it ricocheted off the Elites helmet, gouging out a large part of the alloy and some of the Elites skull underneath.

CRACK!  
The Elites head exploded. The Grunts were even more disorganized, if that was even possible.

CRACK!

A Grunt that had the presence of mind to arm a grenade found itself without most of its upper torso.

The rest of the Grunts were either mopped up by the Marines or were killed by the armed plasma grenade. Montag for his part loaded a Penetrator clip into his sniper rifle, and then relaxed. Staring at the Elite, he wondered: what had the Elite done to earn a suicide job like this? Did he volunteer? Did they draw straws? Did he lose a game of poker? Was he caught with his CO's wife? It was an interesting mind game, trying to ponder the Covenant's motives, but useless at the moment. There were far more important things to concentrate on.

The three remaining dropships stopped circling. Two started to descend towards the cave. The third dropped outside the grove of trees, less than ten meters from Montag. Montag cursed and started packing his bag. Ammo was thrown in, the Handgun was holstered, and he was ready to go in less than fifteen seconds. He slung the bag over his shoulder and started backing off from the dropship.

The dropship hissed, and the side doors opened. On Montag's side, an Elite and three Grunts hopped out. The Elite scanned the area and quickly saw Montag. It pointed at Montag and shouted something Montag couldn't understand. The air was quickly filled with plasma and needles.

Montag dove behind a rather large fallen tree, injuring himself as he landed on a hard mound. Quickly examining the mound, he saw it was a small, rabbit sized hole. Looking around, he saw that there were holes all over on this side of the log. Perhaps there was wildlife on this ring? Xeno-gophers?

Just then, he heard the log crackle, then catch fire from plasma bolts. Desperately fighting the urge to panic, he pulled out two grenades. He crawled to the other end of the log and paused. Gathering his wits, he sat up, aimed, and lobbed the grenades. He caught them by surprise, since they had been firing in a slightly different direction, trying to shoot their way through the log. One grenade landed in the midst of a group of Grunts, tearing them to pieces. The other bounced off a tree and exploded, killing the rest of the Grunts and fragging the Elites. It didn't do any actual harm, except making them angry.

Montag ducked back behind the log, grunting as the heat from near misses with plasma bolts washed over him. He could hear the Elites talking, jabbering away in their alien language. Then he heard them walking towards the log. They were coming. They would jump over the log and kill him, without regard for exposing themselves to gunfire.

A plasma grenade proved him wrong. Lobbed over the log, it landed just two feet from his face. He paused for a fraction of a second, unable to believe what he was seeing. Then he grabbed a fistful of long grass. Using the grass as an oven mitt, he grabbed the plasma grenade and rammed it down one of the nearby 'Xeno-gopher' burrows. No sooner than he retracted his hand than the grenade exploded in a geyser of rock and dirt, slamming Montag against the log, sending waves of intense pain through his body, accompanied by the grinding of bones. Slowly, the pain faded as he slipped into darkness.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, and sorry about the wait. I've been busy on the SC Legacy forums and checking out Halo Wars. And yes, there have been a few more references to StarCraft. You'll see more of this, and maybe even a few StarCraft fanfics...**

**Also, about some of Montag's armaments. Yes, a fifty caliber handgun may be a bit unrealistic, but I'm counting on future tech to reduce recoil and increase muzzle velocity. I should have explained this in the Armory, but it got edited out at some point in time.**

**Thanks, just keep reviewing.  
**


	7. Daydreaming a Nightmare

_**So this guy comes home from his tour, bums around for a few days, then he signs back up for another tour. What is he, some kinda war junky or something?**_

_**Victor Lynn, civilian**_

* * *

_  
Madness. Utter Madness._

_The Warthog careened through the ravine, tires spinning wildly, sloshing through the stream and bouncing off boulders. It swerved back and forth, to avoid the larger, sharper rocks, and to dodge the cascade of plasma and needles swirling around the Warthog._

_Private __Jimmy Rayndar was in back, manning the gauss gun and fending off trailing Banshees. The roar of the gauss gun was barely heard over the whine of the Banshees, the Ghosts, and Private Rayndars own screams. Private Timothy O'Lear was in the passenger seat, armed with an assault rifle, and shouting like a madman. He was firing wildly at the trees on either side of the Warthog, hurling curses at the Grunts hidden in the foliage. Gui Montag was driving like a bat out of hell, swerving to minimize damage to the Warthog._

_They were told that their mission would be a walk in the park. A milk run. No Covenant forces had been detected in the area. The Eyes in the Sky detected nothing in the sector, no Covenant showed up on infrared._

_Useless. Completely Useless._

_The Sergeant was dead. Perforated and blown apart with the Covenant needles. Their heavy armor support, their only tank, was hit by a fuel rod. The ammunition racks cooked off, incinerating the tank and cremating Ivan and Carlos. Two more Warthogs went down fighting against a hail of plasma. Everyone else, either secured in their Warthogs or driving Mongooses, scattered to the four winds. _

_Survival was the mission now. Evade Covenant forces, run like hell and hope they are too busy tracking down the rest._

_Run, run, run, run._

_The ravine widened to the point where two Warthogs could drive abreast. A Covenant Ghost appeared out of the forest to the Warthogs left and broadsided the Warthog, then drove parallel to the Warthog, its driver fumbling with it's plasma rifle._

_Montag pulled out the Handgun and, holding the steering wheel with his left hand, fired the Handgun at the Ghost, peppering it and trying to drive it away. He desperately looked back and forth from the path to the Ghost._

_Private O'Lear was reloading his assault rifle. His armor had plasma burns, glowing red hot. He ignored the pain and slammed the clip home, raised the rifle, and fired at a Grunt that had come out into the open._

_In slow motion, an electric blue plasma grenade sailed through the air. And landed right on O'Lears face._

_The assault rifle dropped beneath the seat, and O'Lear raised his hands to his face, desperately trying to pull the grenade off. The upper layers of his skin peeled and then boiled from the intense heat. All the while he was screaming, "GET IT OFF ME__! OH GOD, __GET IT OFF ME__!"_

_Montag glanced at him, then aimed the Handgun at his head and pulled the trigger. _

_The bullet entered his head and exploded. Montag saw his head deform, then shatter._

_Two more shots, while Montag steered the Warthog sharply to the left, careening into the Ghost. Private Timothy O'Lear, off balance from the bullet impacts and the sudden change of direction, flew out if his seat and out of sight. A moment later, the blast slammed into the Warthog, almost tipping it over._

_From the back, Private Jimmy Rayndar started cursing at Montag._

_"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?"_

_Montag aimed the Handgun over his shoulder at the Private. _

_"KEEP SHOOTING!" he shouted at the top of his lungs._

_A momentary pause, then the Gauss gun started firing again. Montag steered the Warthog back into the ravine, pushing the Warthog to its limit._

_Running somewhere. Anywhere. Nowhere. _

**North side of canyon**

The Elites stood their ground for a minute. Then they cautiously made their way to the log and listened for movement. Nothing. One looked over the log and saw a gaping crater where the plasma grenade landed. That was the last thing he saw before his head exploded in a geyser of blood and flesh.

Montag leaned over the log, aimed the Rifle, and shot the other one; once in the gut, next in the head. Breathing heavily and leaning against the log, he looked around. The Elites were dead. The Grunts were in pieces. He had won. Now to business.

Grabbing his left arm, he started slamming his left side into the log, grunting with pain. With a loud pop, his shoulder, dislocated from the explosion, slid back into its socket. He then placed both hands on his lower back, and arced his back. A popping sound, and the vertebrae realigned. The pain subsided.

He zoomed his HMD in on the other side of the cave. It didn't look good. One dead Elite and six Grunts lay outside the cave. The cave itself was blackened from multiple plasma grenades, and many of the Marines were wounded. The Covenant were advancing slowly behind a barricade of four Jackals, the remaining Elites keeping the Marines pinned down with suppressing fire.

Montag raised the Rifle. On his HMD, the reticule moved over the black area on a red Elites neck. Montag ejected the empty magazine and reloaded.

CRACK!  
The Elite stumbled forward, its shields flaring like a match.

CRACK!  
The Elite had turned around to face Montag. A gaping hole appeared in the center of its chest. It fell, breaking formation and pinning a Grunt beneath him.

CRACK!  
A Jackal fell headless. The Grunts started elbowing each other.

CRACK!  
Yet another one of the Jackals fell. The Marines started firing through the gap in the Covenants defenses. Montag ejected the empty magazine from the Rifle. He reached for a Shredder clip and loaded it.

CRACK!  
The last Jackal fell. A Grunt that had been in the path of the bullet found himself without an upper body.

CRACK!  
An Elite jerked it's head as the bullet impacted on it's upper neck.

CRACK!  
The Elites neck exploded in a flash of blood and viscera. It collapsed to the ground, its head hanging on by a thread of sinew.

The remaining Covenant were in full retreat. If you could call running in circles a retreat. Montag lowered the Rifle and watched the Marines wipe out the Grunts. Probably best for them to start hauling their own weight, he thought with a grim smile. Boost their self esteem.

He took out the Knife and started what he thought of as 'the Ritual'. Gingerly handling the Knife, he notched the Rifle. Eight kills here on the ground, and another nine on the ship. Each cut was made with utmost care, with utmost attention to detail. The notches for the Elites had to be comparatively larger than the notches for the Grunts. The notches were equally spaced in neat rows.

Next he took out his Handgun and started notching it on the hilt. Finally, he took out a much smaller knife and started notching the hilt of the Knife. One notch for every Covenant he had killed with a grenade, Covenant weapon, or the actual Knife. He was running out of room on his weapons.

His weapons had more than a thousand notches altogether, but he had stopped counting the actual number long ago. He had started the 'Ritual' when he was a rookie, because it was therapeutic and helped calm him down after a firefight. Then he had kept doing it for posterity, almost like it was a journal he could write his thoughts and feelings down in. Now he did it for consistency. Units he was assigned to had died, worlds he fought on had been glassed, even how he fought had changed, but 'the Ritual' remained the same.

Montag packed his equipment away and sighed. Thinking back, he realized that he used to be able to remember every kill he had made, where and what he had killed, but now he could remember only the very first, and the most recent, as well as a few notable kills in between. Killing had gone from a living nightmare to part of the job description. And now just a fact of the universe. Life itself had gone from part of the job requirements to a living nightmare...

Just then his reverie was interrupted

"Montag! Get yer rear ready for evac, pronto!" his radio squawked.

Montag sighed, picked up the Rifle and his backpack, and then started back to the cave, darting quickly across the open center of the canyon. His armor shifted with the ambient light, from the dark charcoal of the shadows to the light gray in the sunny interior of the canyon. Reaching the entrance, he stepped aside to let corpsman Dirkens and Jonesey out. Dirkens was carrying medical equipment, and Jonesey was carrying a hafnium plasma cutter and a stretcher.

Montag continued into the cave until he came to the end. The room looked like some sort of amphitheater, but without seats. In the middle of the room lay three Marines. Marines with serious burn marks, but did not look like they had received medical attention. Casualties.

Morris was on the 'stage' operating a radio.

"Yes, that will be fine. The area is clean for dust-off. Again, we have three casualties and one seriously wounded. Please hurry. Over"

Montag continued to stare at the bodies, but his eyes weren't focused. They seemed to stare beyond the bodies, beyond the years, at hundreds of other people he had seen die. The Covenant seemed to have sheer numbers at their side, as well as their advanced technology and ruthless brutality. Humanity had none of these. And so Humanity was slowly being beaten back, cornered until they held only a single planet. And there it would end. As if humanity cared.

Shaking his head, Montag rose and walked back towards the exit of the 'amphitheater'. He saw Kanoff sitting behind Da Vega, applying Burn Gel to her left shoulder blade using slow, circular strokes. Da Vega had removed her armor and pulled up the back of her fatigues. She was currently sitting cross-legged and wincing every time Kanoff pressed down. Kanoff was whispering encouraging words into her ear. Her shoulder was very red, but there were no blisters. Merely a first degree burn then. Nothing serious. Not even a direct hit.

These were the survivors. Of the ten who had crammed themselves onto the lifeboat, only seven survived. Montag himself. Sergeant Morris, who had carbonization on his armor, and smelled of Burn Gel. Kanoff and Da Vega, who both had plasma burns. Corpsman Dirkens, who had needler craters in his armor. Jonesey appeared to be uninjured. And finally the pilot. If he survived.

Montag's gaze fell to the casualties in the center of the room. Bending down, he saw that two had massive burns and carbonization on their armor, consistent with plasma grenade injuries. The third had his chest completely burned through, with charcoal like powder covering his torso. His shirt looked like it had actually caught fire. The person had probably taken multiple plasma bolts to the chest.

_Why mourn the dead, Montag? They could care less. The real reason why soldiers mourn for the dead is guilt. But why? It's survival of the fittest out here, pure darwinism, and if they are dead and you are alive, there's probably a reason for that..._

"MONTAG!"

Montag jolted, but did not turn around to face Morris.

"Git yer down to the shuttle! Dirkins and Jonesey need assistance."

Montag may have nodded, but it was too dark in there to know. He simply stood up and walked out.

**Shuttle**

Across the canyon, Jonesey and Dirkens were trying to cut their way through the windshield of the shuttle. Actually, Dirkens was on the inside, checking the pilot's vitals. Jonesey on the other hand, was perched on the tip of the lifeboat and operating the hafnium plasma cutter, and was cursing up a storm in the attempt. The cutter was larger than an assault rifle, and was very unwieldy. To make matters worse, the heat shield was not cutting very well. Of course, it had been specifically designed to shed heat in case of an atmospheric entry.

"What's the problem?"

Jonesey switched the cutter off and turned around.

Then he cursed.

It was that freaky sniper dude who never talked, and he was always chewing on something. He had asked Sergeant Morris for help over the radio, and this guy probably wouldn't be all that helpful. Why hadn't Morris sent one of the other Marines? They, at least, didn't creep Jonesey out.

Jonesey wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "We need to get the pilot out, and the heat shield isn't cooperating."

The sniper dude (wasn't his name Montag?) stared at the shuttle for a while, then turned around and walked off.

Jonesey watched him walk away. "Bloody tiffany." He muttered.

He hefted the plasma cutter and started cutting around the windshield. The windshield was pure aluminum oxide, and wasn't worth the trouble of cutting through. There were several panes of corundum held together by support framework, almost like a bay window. The windshield was rated for heavy impact and temperatures of up to 7,000 degrees. Ergo, it would take a while to cut through.

"Move."

Jonesey looked up to see who was talking. It was Montag, and he was holding one of those Covenant plasma pistols. Jonesey backed off. If Montag was going to do what he thought he was going to do, then Montag was going to be here forever. Would be fun to watch though.

However, instead of repeatedly firing the plasma bolts at the edge of the windshield, like Jonesey though he would, Montag held down the trigger to the plasma pistol, charging it up. When the pistol was fully charged, Montag fired it at one of the windowpanes, vaporizing it. A stench of burning metal rolled over Jonesey, but he didn't notice. He had never known those things did that...

"Hey, what in Sam Hill are you doing!?" Dirkens yelled from the inside.

Montag didn't answer. He just charged up the plasma pistol again and shot out another pane. He continued to do this until all the panes were vaporized.

"Cut through the framework," He ordered Jonesey.

Jonesey complied. In less than five minutes, they had cut into the cockpit and lifted the pilot out. Despite the fireproof insulation blanket Dirkens had covered the pilot with, the pilot had quite a few burns from melted aluminum. Montag took the pilot by the legs, and Dirkens took the pilot by the arms. They carefully lowered him onto the stretcher and carried him back to the cave.

**The Cave**

The Pelican circled the canyon, scanning for inbound Covenant dropships. Detecting nothing, it slowly descended to the cave, but did not power down. The injured shuttle pilot was the first one loaded onto the Pelican. Next were the three Marines killed in the firefight. Finally, the Marines all entered the back. Montag himself was about to enter when someone cleared his throat behind him. Montag turned around to face Sergeant Morris.

Morris held out his hand. "Good shooting."

Montag himself said nothing. He simply shook the Sergeant's hand and climbed into the Pelican.

* * *

**A/N: Yet another chapter up. Thanks to all of you who R and R'ed my last chapter. You're beginning to see more of who Gui Montag is, what he has done in the course of his extensive military career.**

**Don't forget to R and R.  
**


	8. Upon Reflection

_**You know what they say about first impressions? Right. Now take a look at Gui Montag over there. I used to think he was a great guy. Then he killed somebody right in front of me. He seems pretty shook up about it, but whenever I look at him, all I can see is him unloading several bullets into O'Lears head.**_

_**Private Jimmy Reyndar**_

* * *

**Pelican, 0230 Hours**

Montag sat in the last seat in the Pelican, strapping himself in as it took off. Soon, the horseshoe canyon disappeared, and Montag started to disassemble the Rifle. Taking a bottle of oil out of his backpack, he started cleaning the barrel, wiping away dust and powder. He moved on to the firing and reloading mechanisms, cleaning the Rifle like a professional jeweler would polish Lucifer's Heart. Then he reassembled the Rifle, making sure that the firing mechanism was as clean as the day it came out of the factory.

Next was the Handgun. Back in the twenty first and twenty second century, military and police forces avoided fifty caliber handguns, mainly because of recoil and low magazine capacity. The guns of the twenty sixth century were different. Every time Montag disassembled the Handgun, he couldn't help but admire the engineering of the HK M45 _Gaubika_.

In 2498, Heckler and Koch told it's engineers to make the largest handgun possible, giving them only the Laws of Physics and several international strategic arms limitation treaties as limits.

The gun was never meant for production, only to showcase the latest recoil dampening and ballistics technology. The engineers came back with a .75 caliber handgun. On one of the public demonstrations, the bullet smashed through the hood of a Warthog and shattered the engine block. The Marine who fired it reportedly tore a tendon and pulled several muscles, but did not break any bones. The test was declared to be a success.

The military of Siberia Prime took notice and approached Heckler and Koch, asking them to make a sidearm for their enlisted officers. The weapon was to be a fifty caliber with a capacity of twelve bullets, a muzzle velocity of 600 meters per second and 3900 foot-pounds of muzzle energy. The recoil velocity was to be kept under 10 meters per second. The gun had to be able to work in frigid conditions, be easy to maintain, durable, and accept bullets tailored for the M6D. A tall order.

The engineers delivered, returning with a large handgun with an eight inch barrel, and a rather innovative series of recoil dampening technology. Aside from better gas venting and a liquid/oil reservoir in the barrel, the bore had a fluted design that allowed the bullet to leave the barrel at insanely high speeds. The gun quickly became a favorite in the Siberia Prime military, and became famous for its rugged durability and stopping power. Varieties for different uses followed, but the most popular version remained the original.

The gun accepted standard clips from the M6 series of handguns, but also had special bullets manufactured by Heckler and Koch. Though those bullets were better, they were also hard to come by in the military, so Montag rarely got to use them.

He was done cleaning the Handgun, and reassembled it. He had taken it apart enough times, he could probably reassemble it in a coma. Or with his eyes gouged out. Or anything else that may impair his ability to work with his hands.

Montag picked up the Tracker and clipped it to the underside of the Handgun, just forward of the trigger guard. He looked at the gun shaped logo on his HMD and looked directly at it, then blinked twice. The familiar words of "Please calibrate" flashed.

Facing the opposite side of the Pelican, Montag pressed the laser button on the Tracker. Holding the gun straight out, he tracked the laser along the wall opposite to him.

Jonesy, sitting in the seat opposite of Montag, felt that peculiar warmth on his forehead, the warmth that only a laser sight dancing on your forehead could bring. He looked up and saw Montag pointing the Handgun straight at him. He quickly got up and found another seat on the Pelican.

When the reticule, the guns sights, and the laser dot were lined up, Montag carefully pressed the button to turn off the laser. The HMD flashed. Montag swung the gun around in familiar motions, and the reticule moved to show him where the gun was aiming. It was accurate, but only if you held the gun out right in front of you. Otherwise, the Tracker would get confused by the difference between Montag's point of view and the Handguns line of sight.

Montag turned off the Tracker to conserve battery power. Then he holstered the Handgun and leaned back in his seat, letting the slow swaying of the Pelican rock him to sleep. Back and forth, back and forth…

* * *

_The Pelican swerved back and forth, side to side. Even at this distance from the beach, they were up against AA fire. This wasn't the flak humans fired, the flak that punctured aircraft and perforated passengers. No, this was fuel rods and high speed plasma, which would melt through the aircraft like a hot knife through butter._

_Sergeant Gui Montag could see the beach three kilometers away. The cabin door was open in the Pelican, and this older model had a large windshield. Therefore, Montag could see the Covenant encampment alongside the beach, with hundreds of soldiers, scores of vehicles, and dozens of AA turrets. The sound outside would be deafening, with the perpetual whine of Covenant technology, and the multifarious noises of Human machinery. But inside the Pelican, all Montag could hear was the thumping of the escorting Sparrowhawks' fans. That and the instrumental, 'Flight of the Valkyries', which had been turned up as loud as possible by the Lieutenant._

_Six people in this Pelican, including Montag and the Lieutenant. Three Pelicans of six people, accompanied by six Sparrowhawks. Against hundreds of Covenant, clustered around a bunker, which was sitting over an A-5 spacecraft fuel depot. The plan was to kill this platoon of Covenant with a surprise strike, and secure the LZ for Albatrosses filled with Marines. From there they would mop up the rest of the Covenant platoons, save the supply depots in the area._

_Montag could feel his hands shaking. A few years in combat, and he was still afraid. Especially since this looked like a suicide mission._

_Da dada da da dum, __Da dada da da dum, __Da dada da da dum..._

_The music was too loud, but it was stirring up something in Montag. Anticipation, maybe. Like the war drums of old. _

_They were less than half a kilometer away, and the Plasma fire was intense. Montag couldn't see how they would last even a few seconds in the midst of it._

_One minute to touchdown. This WAS suicide._

_The Lieutenant shouted to get their attention, and Montag looked up at the same time as a vibration ran through the Pelican, like a missile salvo being loosed._

_On the beach, a line of explosions raced up towards the bunker, too distant to hear over the 19th century music. It was a strange sort of dissonance, how multiple warheads with the strength of twenty kilos of TNT were reduced to fanfare.  
_

_The Sparrowhawks fired their missiles, which homed in on preset targets. Scores of vapor trails crisscrossed, and the missiles converged on the flak batteries. Not in the explosions Montag predicted, but in plumes of flame, swirling and devouring the enemy. Grunts, despite the safeties on their rebreathers, popped like fireworks, adding fuel to the fire. The energy shields of the Elites lasted only for seconds before giving up to the heat. The Elites joined the Jackals in writhing on the ground, screaming like souls condemned. The shields generated around the batteries went out, dissolving into sparks of lightning that arced through the smoke.  
_

_Napalm is designed to stick to something like tar, and burn at several thousand degrees Celsius. The UN had long outlawed its use against human targets. It was judged to be cruel and inhumane. It was not considered to be cruel and inhumane when used against the Covenant._

_The Pelican and its escorts swerved to circle around the Covenant camp, and now Montag got to see the action through the open rear. Most of the Covenant were running or waddling in the opposite direction of the fireballs, all pretense of discipline abandoned. Downey, manning the HMG in back, cheered as he revved it up to full ROF. A beam of tracers zigzagged through the largest group, and spouts of blue and purple joined the yellow streaks._

_"Grunts are the easiest, man!" he shouted over the sound of a thousand bullets a minute. "You just don't lead them as much!" _

_Two more Marines leaned out and fired wildly at the fleeing figures with their assault rifles, whooping loudly in tune with the music.  
On the ground, a Shade of some sort focused on the Pelican and fired back, missing wildly but getting closer with each shot. The Lieutenant cursed as it raked the side of the Warthog the Pelican was carrying, and switched on the radio._

_"Will one of you 'Hawkjocks take that gun out!"_

_Downey got up from behind the HMG, having ducked to protect himself, and fired back at the offending turret. Wasted ammo, as another fireball consumed it._

_"Thanks Orville, I owe you a cold one!"  
_

_After another half-turn, the Pelican landed, and everybody ran out, zigzagging across the beach. Montag got to the rendezvous first, and huddled against the small ridge that served as a barrier between the beach and the supply depot. He heard the roaring of the flames, the screams of the few Covenant left. It was hot as hell, too.  
_

_The Lieutenant was the next person to reach the rendezvous._

_Hefting his weapon in his bearlike arms, the Lieutenant inhaled deeply and sighed. Then he turned around and addressed Montag._

_"You smell that? That gasoline-burnt-bacon smell? Napalm. Nothing else in the universe smells like that..." he paused, looking over the ridge. More missiles hit, explosive ones that sounded with a distinct 'whump'. "I love the smell of napalm in the morning, Montag. It smells like… victory. If you're smelling that, it means you stayed alive long enough to go home."_

_Montag nodded, unsure of what to say._

_"Once we had an entire battalion of Covenant troops holed up in a small forest, assaulting a power generator. I can't remember if it was Paris or Arcade but we bombed that forest for hours, and when it was all over, no bodies. No equipment. Just dust, ashes, and the smell of victory."_

_By this time the rest of the Marines had caught up, armed with an array of shotguns and assault rifles, and Montag fell in line with them. Two squads of nine Marines with two Warthogs._

_"Alright boys, stick to the plan," Lieutenant Beatty Demeraset said. "Kill anything that ain't well done, regroup at the bunker, and stay away from the flames. Any questions?"_

_One Marine raised his hand. "Sir, why are they using napalm over a FUEL DEPOT?"_

_"Don't be a coward, the fuel is a good twenty meters belowground. Now lets go!"_

_The Marines charged over the ridge, and the Warthogs followed. Montag was right behind them when something happened. Perhaps the wind blew fresh oxygen into a puddle of smoldering napalm. Or perhaps one of the Warthogs ran over a dud missile. Whatever it was, the entire squad was thrown to the ground as blistering flames rolled over them.

* * *

_

Montag's eyes snapped open, waking him from the nightmare. He blinked and looked around the cabin. The other Marines were dozing, sleeping away combat fatigue.

The Pelican looked… different somehow. It was more battlescarred, the seats were bloodstained, and there was a corpse sitting across from him. The corpse was dressed in non-military fatigues, and had the right side of it's head blown away from a high velocity bullet. As Montag looked at it, it slowly smiled, baring it's teeth. Montag blinked, and the Pelican returned to normal. The corpse was nowhere to be seen.

He had thought he had woken up from a nightmare. But to what? Reality was just as surreal as his memories, and his past hunted him just as much in the waking hours as it did in his sleep.

Was it some shred of conscience? Deep down, was he ashamed of his actions?

_Don't let the nightmares get to you, Montag. Don't look at it as right or wrong, look at it as what you can do, and what you can't do. Survival._

If only the man who had spoken those words could see him now. Haunted by memories, accompanied by ghosts. Just a shell of a human, an automaton going through the motions. The perfect survivor, Montag thought bitterly.

Montag jerked his thoughts from that topic, and looked around the cabin. Five Marines left. In the front of the Pelican, Kanoff and Da Vega were dozing in adjacent seats, leaning against one another. They had only met each other an hour before, but they had forged a strong relationship fighting together. The psychologists billed it as "Stress induced platonic bonding". They said it was one way how younger soldiers coped with war. And young they were. Montag doubted either had seen a year of duty yet deal with combat. The relationship would either endure after the war, or it would not. There was no way to tell.

Montag shifted his focus to Jonesy. He was pale as a sheet, and was hunched over in his sleep. A dribble of saliva was running down his cheek, and he was emitting a high, nasal snoring. Where did the Marine Corps find this guy? Montag's guess was somewhere in a small, windowless cubicle. No doubt he was good with explosives, or whatever he did, but he was also petrified at the thought of combat. Yet another sign of the USMC's desperation for soldiers.

Finally, there was Sergeant Morris. A veteran. A man who genuinely cared for his Marines, evidently. The polar opposite of Montag. Montag briefly wondered if the Sergeant had seen as much combat as Montag had. He doubted it. Nobody in their right mind would willingly have gone through what Montag had.

The intercom crackled and sparked. "Ladies and germs, we are now approaching Command Base Beta. Please fasten your seatbelts and keep your seats in the upright position."

The Pelican flew over the Base, and Montag looked out the back of the Pelican. Command Base Beta was in a small mountain, on a forested, circular plateau fifteen kilometers across. There was a river running around the base of the plateau, and three mesas spaced evenly around the plateau. The mesas peaked in natural bridges that arced over the river, and joined with the plateau.

The river, the plateau, and the base all formed concentric circles that, when viewed from above, looked like an arcane archery target, with the base as the bullseye. As if the Covenant needed any help..

The mountain was hollowed out into some sort of installation, with only one large exit in the mountain's 'south' side. The exit, flanked by AK AK anti aircraft guns, was big enough to fly three Pelicans through, if they flew on top of each other. It was here that the Pelican entered, after circling for a few minutes waiting for clearance.

* * *

**  
A/N: Another chapters up, I hope the beginning wasn't too technical for you. And yes, I am diverging from Halo canon, mentioning Beta Base on Alpha Halo, but I didn't like the way 'The Flood' was written, so I'm taking a few liberties with it. Hey, it's fanfiction.  
**

**Since it's my birthday, how about R and R'ing as a birthday present? Just tell me what you think. It's not all that hard, and it doesn't take all that much time.  
**


	9. No Rest For the Wicked

_**Most of these Marines have clear cut reasons for joining the UNMC, mostly for college money, but many others join because of slick marketing techniques; they think that the war is a walk in the park.**_

_**Gui Montag, on the other hand... I think he personally hates the Covenant. I can't think of any other reason why he would sign up three times.**_

_**John Bullard, Office of Naval Intelligence, Section One  
**_

* * *

**0312 hours, 19th September, 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Unidentified system, Alien Ringworld  
Beta Base  
**

Montag stepped out of the Pelican with the others. The room that they were in was large enough to be used as a garage/hangar. Or maybe a gravball field. Up one side of the room, several dozen Warthogs were parked according to type; M12 Warthog LRVs and the rarer M12A1 Warthog LAAV (More commonly called Rockethogs, or Rockhogs). The other side of the room had fewer vehicles. Pelicans were kept in one corner, and five Scorpion tanks were being serviced in the other corner. In the middle, a machine shop had been set up in case the Covenant attacked and vehicles needed to be repaired or salvaged. Already, there were mechanics stripping down a Bumblebee lifeboat. Way in the back of the room, gun racks and ammunition crates were stacked. This was what probably served as the armory.

The Marines walked towards the back of the room, except for Sergeant Morris, who journeyed to HQ. Weapons were unloaded and racked, full ammo clips were stacked on tables. Empty or partially empty clips were fed into a machine, which kept track of ammo and filled the cartridges. The Marines, however, did not take off their armor. The Covenant might attack any time now, and the Marines were ordered to remain ready. Montag however, only deposited his ammo, and kept his weapons. Then he exited the armory and walked to the back of the hangar, where a large door was.

The door whooshed open revealing a hallway perhaps twenty five meters long. It had two doors on either side, and one way down at the end. Montag walked down the hall.

After ten meters, he came to the first two doors. He walked up to the one on his right. Inside was another room, hexagonal in shape. In the center was a well, with a bright blue beam shooting into the ceiling. It was surrounded by six pillars that almost reached the ceiling, and had a multitude of pipes reaching from the corners of the room to the top of the pillars. Evenly spaced around the center of the room were a score of meter wide cubes.

"What is this?"

Montag turned around and saw Privates Da Vega and Kanoff. There were several other Marines behind them, who must have just arrived.

Montag looked at the crates stacked up against the far wall. It seemed that this was being used as a storeroom, but probably a mess hall too, since there was food preparation machinery in one of the corners.

"Looks like its going to be a mess hall," Kanoff said, echoing Montag's thoughts.

Someone opened the door on the other side of the hall. If the human equipment had been cleared out of both rooms, they would be identical. This room, however, was supposed to be used as a bunk room.

Montag continued his walk down the hall, determined to map out the entire base.

The next room they came to down the hallway was rectangular, with partitions dividing it into cells. This had been adapted into an infirmary, with cots being set up, and medical/pharmaceutical crates stacked up against the far wall.

The room across from that had a generator, flanked by water purification tanks and some other machines. A bathroom had also been set up. Some of the Marines hurried to relieve themselves.

Montag leaned against the wall in the hallway. The door at the end of the hallway surely ended up in the HQ.

As impressive as the array of equipment salvaged was, it was not enough. There was a lot of equipment necessary for running a base in enemy territory. Most of it was related to fixing and keeping hardware running, but Montag had a sneaking suspicion that there was also a lack of defensive weaponry and communications gear. Montag sighed and walked back down the corridor to the bunk room.

He paused at the doorway, looking for an empty "bunk". The "bunks" were basically seat cushions salvaged from lifeboats, each with a footlocker also salvaged from the lifeboats. There weren't many left, with only about fifty. There would probably be three times that many Marines, eventually.

He walked down a few aisles to an empty bunk. He pulled the footlocker out and opened it. It was completely empty, for storing uniforms and things while the soldiers slept. Removing his armor, he stacked it neatly in the footlocker, after checking the battery. Then Montag lovingly set the Rifle in the locker, followed by the Handgun and the Knife. He slowly closed the lid and slid the locker right next to his bunk. Safely stored away, but ready to use.

Montag lay back on the cot and turned his HMD on. Using his right eye, he looked through the Icons on the left side of the screen. Staring directly at one that looked like a notepad, he blinked twice, slowly chewing. The screen was replaced with a long list of books that Montag slowly scrolled through. The program he was using hadn't come with the equipment, and had been programmed in by Montag on his first tour.

On his first tour, Montag had found that nothing relieved the dull moments of duty like reading. Before he had joined, Montag had been an avid reader, a pastime encouraged by his grandfather. Back then, he had read for literary enjoyment. Now, he just read to past the time.

Perhaps he should read Conrad's "Heart of Darkness." Or maybe T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland."

* * *

**Restroom, 0320 Hours**

Kanoff and Da Vega were still in the restroom. Actually, they were at the sink, which was merely a barrel filled with water and sanitizer. Private Kanoff was washing his face, savoring the cool water. In a firefight, plasma quickly dried out the skin, leaving it tough and leathery. Afterwards, your face felt like a mask.

Da Vega gestured to him, and they went over to a corner where the other Marines couldn't see them. Da Vega turned away from Kanoff and lifted off her shirt, exposing the white tank top underneath. The wool had burned away from the heat of the plasma that had hit her armor, exposing the skin underneath. In the last half hour, the skin had gone from a red burn to a wrinkled brown callus with water filled blisters, slightly darker than her skin. Serious damage had been adverted because of the burn gel.

"How bad is it?" Da Vega asked.

Kanoff lightly touched the burn. "Feel anything?"

Da Vega jerked away. "Hell yeah."

Kanoff tried to remember if that was good or not. Basic training was just over a year ago, and a medical course had been included.

"I think that means a second degree burn, but I'm not sure."

"Is that good or bad?" Da Vega had been in the Marine Corps just as long as Kanoff had been.

"Good, I think. I don't think there will be any permanent scarring, but I don't know for sure."

Da Vega pulled her shirt back on.

"So, we'll need to ask Dirkens."

"Yeah."

There was a brief moment of silence as both tried to think of something, anything to keep the conversation going.

Kanoff spoke first. "So, what do you think of our mutual friend."

Da Vega shrugged. "Interesting guy, but 'friend' is stretching it a bit."

"Yeah, he was kind of distant."

Da Vega shot him a look of mock disgust. "Distant? He tried to abandon us back on the Pillar of Autumn."

"Yeah, but he made up for it."

"I dunno, he just seems like he doesn't care." Da Vega shrugged. "Maybe he has his own reasons. But it's kind of hard to justify leaving us."

Kanoff tried to change the subject. Slightly.

"He's certainly good at what he does. Did you see him in action?"

"No, I was too busy getting shot."

There was a pause, and then both broke out laughing.

"Hey, let's go find Dirkens."

* * *

**Headquarters, 0320 Hours**

Minutes earlier, Morris had walked down the hallway to the door at the end. He rode down an elevator, and walked into a large, circular room. The room had a lot of partitions jutting out from the walls, forming cells, or cubicles. Some of these cubicles were taken up by Sergeants and officers, but most of them had communications equipment or computers.

Morris walked over to one of the Sergeants and proceeded to gather information.  
"What's going on here?"

Staff Sergeant Mobuto looked up from his laptop and nodded in greeting.

"Did you just arrive?"

"A few minutes ago."

"Okay then." Mobuto, never the one for small talk, launched into lecture mode. "We are short on just about everything we need to keep this base running more than a day. The people in charge are going to send some squads out to get equipment, but sooner or later, we are going to have to return to the POA."

"Have we established contact with everybody?"

Mobuto shook his head.

"There's still some lifeboats unaccounted for, but Major Silva has set up another base. He's collected about three hundred Marines and OSDTs, so we get the other three hundred, four hundred. Depends on how many survived. We're still getting organized, so..."

"So, when do I get assigned my squad?"

"Here, I'll pull up the roster…"

* * *

**Bunk room, 0322 Hours**

The other Marines entered the room and started claiming bunks. Montag switched off his HMD to watch. There were a few arguments. Kanoff and Da Vega refused to sleep in bunks that weren't adjacent, and Dirkens thought that he should sleep in the bunk closest to the door, as his medical services might be needed at any time. In a few minutes everyone was settled and catching some R/R, except for Jonesey.

Jonesey gave an inarticulate curse as he realized that there were two choices left: right next to Kanoff and Da Vega, who would probably keep him up, or right next to 'the freaky sniper dude'. He chose the bunk next to Kanoff and Da Vega. There had been some other bunks available in the room, but they were in the area that some OSDTs had staked out, and Jonesey knew better than to bunk there. He had, after all, heard stories of the hazings OSDTs dealt out to 'lesser soldiers'.

Jonesey had just settled in when a makeshift PA system crackled on.

"Squads Sierra and Tango, please report to the Armory in one-zero minutes."

Montag switched on his HMD. He was in Sierra squad. He rolled out of bed, retrieved his armor and weapons from the footlocker, and ran to the Armory.

* * *

**Armory, 0324 hours**

It appeared that the Marines from Morris's lifeboat had formed the nucleus of Sierra squad, along with survivors from another lifeboat. Now the fifteen of them, along with Tango squad, were hustled around Sergeant Morris and a Hologram projector.

"As most of you have noticed," Morris began. "We have the bare essentials for a command base. However, the bare essentials does not include things that would merely be nice to have, like anti-aircraft guns and other goodies. So now Command is sending us next door to ask the Covies if they can spare some toys."

There was a pause.

"Of course, Command didn't say we had to ask nicely."

Morris pushed a button on a remote, and the projector hummed to life. The hologram flared, and then crystallized into a tactical view of a building. It was roughly pyramidical, was positioned on the edge of a cliff, and was crawling with Covenant. The view rotated so the Marines were looking at the edge of the cliff. About thirty meters down was a platform that jutted straight out of the cliff wall. Two Shade turrets and four Banshees were positioned on the platform.

"This survey was taken by one of the inbound lifeboats. Therefore, the info on the amount of personnel and vehicles is less than two hours old."

"Fire team Sierra will be knocking on the back door. Snipers will take out any Elites who can pilot the Banshees, then will take out any Shade gunners. Try and take the vehicles intact, but take them out if you have to."

"Once the Covenant have been eliminated, two Marines will stand guard outside while the rest of you start cleaning out the inside. The Pelican that inserts you slackers will be removing the ordinance you liberate."

"Fire team Tango will be going through the front door. You will sneak up under cover of darkness, snipe the Ghost drivers and Shade gunners, and take out the Wraith. Then half of you will enter the complex and kill any Covenant inside. The other half will stay outside and give the Covenant reinforcements a warm welcome."

"This is a smash and grab, people. We WANT to take the Covenants vehicles intact. Anyone who destroys a Banshee, Ghost, or Shade WILL be humping it back to the base on FOOT. And once they get back to the base, we'll see just how well MY BOOT FITS UP THEIR ARSE!"

"Any questions? Good, we leave in five."

* * *

**  
A/N: Another chapters up. Sorry if it was dry, but I was giving you guys an idea of what Command Base Beta is. Don't worry, you will be getting more action soon.**

**Also; yes, I admit it. I'm guilty. I blatantly copied one of the most famous scenes from one of the best movies ever: "Apocalypse Now!". I couldn't help it, as it was a great opportunity to introduce someone...**

**What surprises me is that everyone spotted the allusion to Apocalypse Now, but no one noticed the Lieutenant...**

**Finally, you guys know how much I love reviews.  
**


	10. Knock Knock

**_Give a man a rifle, and he calls himself a sniper. Especially with all this newfangled computer crap that accounts for crosswinds and such. Only a few people are really snipers; the people who can kill a man from two kilometers away, who can remain motionless for days on end just for one kill, who wield a rifle like it's an extension of their own body. Gui Montag, despite his urban upbringing, is one of these men.  
_**

**_Drill Sergeant Alan Dubrinsky_**

* * *

**Covenant base 150 Kilometers upspin from Command Base Beta, 0403 hours**

Gakag was as close to happy as an Unggoy could get.

He sat out in a Shade on the platform overlooking the canyon, just barely dozing off. Fifteen meters to his left, on the other side of the platform, Babag was truly asleep in his Shade. In between the Shades four Banshees sat, ready for takeoff, facing out into the narrow canyon.

Gakag lifted his head to take in his surroundings. The sky was starting to brighten, and the large planet that hung in the sky was turning from purple to light blue. Gakag could feel the cool, moist air wafting up from the river at the bottom of the canyon, could hear the wind gently caressing the canyon. If he could take off his mask, he could probably smell the musky conifers that populated the bottom of the canyon. Best of all, he wouldn't die today. No, the Humans had camped many hundreds of units downspin, and certainly wouldn't come for this out-of-the-way base.

There were four Sangheili huddled near the Banshees, talking, chatting. Gakag wasn't worried. These Sangheili weren't all that bad as far as their species could go, although Lham 'Rehamee was riding high on his new promotion. He was the only Red here, thank the Gods. The more seniority the Sangheili achieved, the crueler and more insufferable they were. The lower ranking ones at least tended to develop what passed for big brother/little brother relations with the Unggoy in their command. When they weren't sending the Unggoy to their death.

But death wouldn't come. No, the Humans would probably be wiped out in the next few days, and Gakag wouldn't see a single one of them. Before long, Gakag's shift would be over, and he could go rest in the methane bunker with his fellow Unggoy, perfectly at peace.

* * *

**400 meters from Platform, 0403 hours**

Sergeant Morris stood in the rear door of the Pelican. There was an L shaped bend in the canyon that allowed the Pelican to hide around the corner while the Marines got some Intel. Hence the briefcase sitting right next to Morris. He picked it up and opened it. Inside was a small plane about the length of his forearm. He gently picked it up out of the briefcase and plugged it into a small computer that came with it. After programming instructions into the plane, he switched a button, unplugged the plane, and threw it out the back of the Pelican.

The Gnat UAV looked like a remote control airplane, weighing only 200 grams, but packing three cameras and a computer. It was an Unmanned Arial Vehicle, which have been in use since the turn of the 21st century, and one of their first uses was to scout out enemy territory for police and Marines. But despite its weight, the Gnat was outfitted with some of the best technology the Marine Corps could fit on its sturdy frame. It had three 32-megapixel cameras with 20 to 1 zoom, could stay aloft for three hours beaming live footage with a video camera, was quieter than a pin drop, and had the radar signature of, well, a gnat.

The Gnat flew out past the bend, recognized the heat signatures of the Covenant machinery, and started taking close up pictures. It completed its elliptical orbit and flew back to the Pelican, avoiding the downdraft and flying into Sergeant Morris's hands.

Morris plugged the Gnat into the handheld computer and studied the photos. Then he pointed at two Marines towards the front of the Pelican.

"Montag, Lincoln, get over here!"

They complied, and Morris sent the photos to their HMDs.

Some of the Marines in Sierra squad had been given over to Tango, since they would be fighting a larger force. Morris had kept Montag, and Private Lincoln had been assigned to his group. All in all, Sierra squad had twelve Marines. Only two of those were snipers.

"We've got two Shades, one on either side of the platform. Clustered by each Shade is two Banshees. In the middle of the platform are three Blues and a Redcoat. I want them taken out first, BEFORE they can board the Banshees. Next, I want the Shade gunners killed. I don't see any other monkeys around, so if there's more, they're probably behind that door. When they come through, take them out AFTER you kill the Shade gunners."

Montag nodded. Not a bad strategy, probably what he would have done without instructions. Private Lincoln looked nervous.

"We will be backing the Pelican around the bend so you guys can shoot before they see us. Hooah?"

Both Marines agreed.

"Send them to Hell."

Four Elites to take out at 350 meters in less than twenty seconds. On board a moving Pelican. Morris severely doubted they could kill all of the Elites. It was, at the very least, highly improbable.

* * *

**Pelican, 0405 Hours**

The Pelican pilot called upon all his skill to perform the maneuver asked of him. He had to be close to the cliff wall to get as close as he could to the platform, but he couldn't crash. He had to fly with his BACK to the cliff, so he couldn't directly see how close he was. And he had to fly SIDEWAYS so he could present the Pelican's backside to the Covenant when they came around the bend. At least there were no crosswinds.

Corporal Montag and Private Lincoln sat at the edge of the Pelican's transport bay, their legs dangling over the edge. They had tethered themselves to the Pelican, but it was still a long drop down. Both had secured additional ammo next to them, and were busy checking the sights on their rifles. Each shot had to count, as it took two shots to kill an Elite, and they only had four shots apiece before they reloaded. When both were ready, they gave Morris the thumbs up sign.

Morris nodded, and told the pilot to go. The Pelican shifted, and moved to the right. The cliff scrolled by, and abruptly fell away, leaving the Pelican in plain sight.

Montag sighted through his HMD, and picked out the Red Elite. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the universe narrowed to just Montag and the circle at the end of the tunnel. One of Montag's better CO's had said this feeling, when one was spilling the blood of the enemy, focusing one's anger and hatred into a single bullet, was one of the best highs possible. Montag was inclined to agree.

He willed his heart rate to slow, and his breathing slowed to. The roar of the Pelican receded to the edge of his consciousness, and he became aware of everything affecting the trajectory of the bullet. The cool air funneling into slow downdrafts, the temperature of the barrel, crosswinds. Everything.

CRACK!

The bullet went precisely where Montag wanted it to. The Elite was spun around by the force of the bullet hitting his shoulder. His shields were depleted.

CRACK!

The Elite fell.

CRACK!

A Blue Elite was knocked backwards by the force of the bullet.

CRACK!

The Elite was down.

Montag ejected the clip and reached for a new one. The empty clip bounced off the deck and fell into open space.

Private Lincoln, a less experienced sniper, had sighted on a Blue Elite a few seconds before.

CRACK!

The first shot went wide, hitting the cliff wall.

CRACK!

The second shot hit the Blue Elite in the chest, depleting its shields.

CRACK!

The third shot connected with the Elites left hand, shattering it in an explosion of blood and bone.

CRACK!

The fourth shot hit the Elite in the chest, killing it.

The final Elite ran for a Banshee.

Montag had finished reloading.

CRACK!

The Elite stumbled to the side as the bullet impacted upon its shields.

CRACK!  
The Elite's throat exploded. It collapsed upon the platform, immobile, but did not die.

* * *

**Platform, 0405 Hours**

Gakag was stunned.

The Sangheili, the Sangheili that every Unggoy considered invulnerable, were dead. They would not give the orders to fire, and Gakag was unsure of what to do. He simply followed the Cardinal Rule of Unggoy Combat: when in doubt, shoot. He targeted the distant Human airship, not because he was coherent enough to deduce that the ship was what had taken out the Sangheili, but because it was the only moving thing he could see. He heard a distant crack, and heard Babag stopped firing the other Shade. A panic seized him, for he was what every Unggoy feared: all alone.

He felt an icy numbness shoot through him, and was suddenly happy.

He was going to the Methane Filled Paradise, where he would be forever at peace.

* * *

**Pelican, 0406 Hours**

The pilot spun the Pelican around and raced for the platform, reaching it in less than thirty seconds. Then he put the Pelican into another hard turn and got the back door over the platform and yelled for the troops to disembark.

The Marines jumped out of the Pelican just as the door to the Installation opened, revealing a dozen Grunts.

The Marines raised their assault rifles and shotguns and fired simultaneously, sending a wave of death through the Grunts. Six made it back into the Installation, and the doors started to close.

Sergeant Morris pulled out a frag grenade and threw it at the Grunts. He had the pleasure of seeing the grenade clock one of the Grunts on the forehead before the doors closed. There was a muffled thump, and silence returned to the platform.

Morris pointed at two Marines. "Lincoln, Heywood, man those Shades. Fry anythin' that ain't friendly."

The other Marines gathered in a semicircle around the entrance and checked their weapons. One of them stepped forward, and the door opened, revealing an empty, blood splattered hall.

"Liz, take point."

A female Marine with a shotgun ran forward, and the other Marines followed.

The hall ended after fifty meters in another door. Morris signaled, and the Marines split in two and lined up along each wall. Stepped up to the door, which slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

They had caught the Covenant by surprise. Somehow, the gathered Elites, Jackals, and Grunts had been too busy doing whatever to realize they were under attack.

The Marines spread out, firing assault rifles and shotguns while taking cover behind crates. The Covenant took a few seconds before organizing.

Montag picked out a Jackal that was hiding behind it's shield.

CRACK!

The Jackal's knee exploded, showering the floor in viscera. It fell on all fours, slipping and sliding on its own blood.

CRACK!

A Grunt behind the Jackal spun around like a marionette.

Montag started sidestepping towards a row of crates.

CRACK!

An Elite staggered backwards, its plasma rifle tracking towards Montag.

CRACK!

The Elite's armor cracked above the right breast, and it fell to the ground.

Montag was running to a row of crates, when a Jackal let off a charged burst from it's plasma pistol. The globule homed in on Montag

Montag ducked behind the row of crates, and the plasma burst just feet away from Montag. His hair singed, and his armor changed from a light gray to white with black ripples. It slowly changed back as the fail-safes dealt with the EMP surge.

Montag turned around was surprised to see an Elite crouched two meters away, facing away from Montag. It started to turn when it heard Montag.

Montag reached into the ammunition pouch but couldn't feel an extra magazine. His hands closed around something and he pulled it out. It was a homemade anti-vehicle incendiary grenade. What it looked like was an empty beer can with a spark plug stuck into the opening. Not having enough time to find something else, Montag prepped the trigger and threw it.

"Catch," he said.

The incendiary grenade was basically a beer can filled with thermite and a magnesium timer stuck in the hole. Thermite is a mixture of aluminum powder and powdered rust. When exposed to enough thermal energy, a single displacement reaction occurs. The aluminum atoms will strip the oxygen off the iron oxide molecules, melting the metal with a temperature in excess of 2500 degrees Celsius. It was perfect against machinery, but infantry tended to move away from the reaction.

The grenade, however, worked perfectly this time. It struck the Elite in the chest, making the shields flare up. The energy overspill coursed through the thermite, setting off the reaction. The mixture heated up to a liquid in milliseconds, melting the can and splashing all over the Elites chest. The shields shorted out in seconds, and the thermite continued to burn, dripping down the armor.

The Elite dropped its weapon and fell to the ground, writhing and screaming. It clawed at its chest, only to have its hands burned.

The sheer heat was unbearable, and the armor actually started to melt and fuse in with the Elites skin.

Montag barely noticed the Elite's struggle; he had found an extra magazine and finished reloading the Rifle. He stepped around the crates and picked out targets.

CRACK!

The bullet passed just inches from another Marine's head, and finished off and Elite with downed shields.

CRACK!

A Grunt tripped and fell. It did not get back up.

CRACK!

A Jackal found itself defenseless without its shield arm.

CRACK!

A Grunt fell without its face.

The Marines slowly looked around the room, rifles at the ready. The room was roughly circular, with two levels: a ground floor and a landing above them. There was an exit on the other side of the room, and ramps on either side of the room leading downward. Finally, there were some pillars in the center of the room, surrounding what seemed like a well. But no more Covenant.

Sergeant Morris surveyed the room, then started barking orders. "June, Jordan, secure the right ramp. Jonesey, you lock that door down. Montag and Liz, make sure nothing comes up the left ramp. The rest of you secure the landing above us."

Montag was back behind the crates, reloading the Rifle, when he heard a whimper coming from around his feet. He looked down, and saw the Elite. It was barely moving, and a huge hole had been burned in its chest armor. Blackened ribs sprung up from the chest, but all the soft tissue surrounding them was burned off.

The Elite must have been in enormous amounts of pain, but was unable to vocalize. It was staring pathetically at Montag, pain dulling its pride.

_Pathetic._

Montag lifted his boot, and placed it down on the Elites head. Slowly, he transferred weight from one foot to the other, taking his time to separate and crush the bones in the animal's head. The forehead gave way all at once, bulging but not breaking the skin. Montag studied the corpse for a second, and then ran over to the ramp where he was supposed to be, and glanced at his partner, Private Liz. Then he glanced again. It was the female Marine who had taken point on the way in here.

"You're supposed to be guarding the other ramp." he said.

She gave him a funny look, then started laughing. Montag patiently waited for her to stop.

"I'm Liz, June is over there." Montag looked where she was pointing and saw a Marine that did look like Liz at the other ramp. She was talking to a blond haired Marine. Montag realized that Liz and June were identical twins. Very rare, considering that the Marine Corps usually split friends and family members apart, so as to break a person down and rebuild him as a Marine.

"LIZ, IS YOUR AREA SECURE?"

Liz looked down the ramp. It ended in a door after twenty meters. "Yes sir. Send Jonesey over to lock this door down."

Montag watched Jonesey lock the door opposite to the one they had come in through. He was using a cargo clamp to do it, something normally used to lock crates together. It was basically a jack with a clamp on each end. Jonesey was locking either end on the doors and pulling a lever that would lock the door shut.

Jonesey ran over and secured Montag's door last; after which Morris gave the order to search around and inspect the Covenant crates while they waited for Tango.

* * *

"Do you have any idea how to get this open?"

Montag and Liz were studying one of the Covenant crates. For all they knew, the crate could be full of plasma rifles, or grenades, or rations. There was some sort of script on one side, but none of them could figure out what the symbols meant. It could be a bar code revealing the contents of the crate. Or it could be nutritional information for the food inside. Who knew?

Montag walked around the crate, leaving bloody footprints with every other step.

"Yeah, grenades usually work."

Liz shook her head. "What if there's plasma grenades in there?"

"Then it only opens faster," Montag thought. Instead, he shrugged and started examining the crate closer.

His fingers ran down the seam on one of the edges. He had always thought it was strange that the Covenant crates were covered in the same alloy that covered the Covenant vehicles. Humans didn't cover their crates in Titanium A. Did the Covenant have more armor than they knew what to do with? That was a scary thought...

Montag felt something in the seam. It was a long, thin hole in the rubbery compound that filled the corners and edges. He pulled out the Knife and jammed it in. After some probing around, the crate hissed and the lid fell open.

The crate was filled with reddish purple crystals that spilled out onto the floor. Liz kneeled down and picked one up in her hand, examining it.

FLASH!

A brilliant beam of light burst forth from the well in the center of the room and out through the ceiling. The room was lit with a painful level of light for a few seconds. When Montag could see again, he spotted an Elite behind Sergeant Morris, its active camouflage overloaded from the sudden increase in light. Montag raised the Rifle and fired, severing the Elites head from its body. The shot echoed in the room, deafening the Marines. Everyone stared in shock at the Elite that had come so close to killing Morris.

Finally, Morris himself broke the silence.

"EVERYONE SPREAD OUT. THERE'S GOT TO BE MORE OF THEM!" he ordered.

Everyone ran for the walls. From there, they could get a good view of the room and the landing above. And the Elites couldn't sneak up behind them.

Morris' radio buzzed. "_SHSHSHSHSH _Calling Morris. Sergeant Morris, do you read me? This is Sergeant Mobuto."

Morris keyed on his radio. "This is Sergeant Morris. Please continue."

"Topside is secure. We are now coming down to you."

"Sergeant Mobuto, be advised that there may be cloaked Elites in here."

A pause. "Thanks for the warning, we'll be down soon."

Morris turned off his radio and looked at the other Marines. "Anyone see movement?"

Montag looked at an Icon on the edge of his HMD display. It was a square, blue with red dots. He blinked twice while looking at the icon, and the display changed. Instead of the normal view, it was now Infrared. Heat vision.

He looked around the room. The light bending properties of the Elite's active camouflage actually bended and absorbed low infrared, including any radiation that the field emitted. Ergo, any camouflaged Elites would show up as dark blue dots.

Everything was grey, pink, or red.

"Infrared shows all clear."

Everyone visibly relaxed, and started to spread out.

CRACK! CRACK!

"OK, now it's clear."

Most of the Marines broke out laughing. Morris just ground his teeth.

There was banging coming from the other side of the door Jonesey had locked down first. Morris pulled out his radio. "Sergeant Mobuto, is that you?"

"Yeah, that's us. Could you unlock this? It's lonely out here."

Jonesey chortled at Mobuto's feeble attempt at a joke as he unlocked the door. Five Marines came through, four privates and Sergeant Mobuto. Mobuto was rather tall, at six foot six, and was solidly built, authority reeking from him like body odor. His assault rifle almost looked like a toy in his hands.

Mobuto and Morris immediately began comparing notes while the Marines joked around.

"Four Banshees and two Shades on our end," Morris said. "How about you?"

"Failed to acquire the Wraith," Mobuto muttered. "Got the four Shades, four Banshees and three Ghosts, but that's it."

"Wonder what they're guarding here."

"We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

Morris shrugged and looked at the ramps. "Which door do we take first?"

A pause. "We'll have to split up and take both. We can't afford to have enemies attack us or the surface teams from behind. Give me two of your Marines, and we'll be fine."

* * *

**A/N: Well, sorry it took so long to update. I release chapters when they are ready, and not a second before.**

**I'm pretty sure that I'll be able to update this weekend, but no promises. Keep Reviewing, it only motivates me to update faster.**


	11. Close call

**Gui Montag and Hans Kantorek have been friends forever, and are always getting into trouble. Whenever one (Usually Hans) gets in trouble, the other (Usually Gui) gets him out. But for the most part, they've never got into serious trouble.  
**

**Now that they've joined the Marines, I hope their luck holds out.**

**Alexei Ramius, civilian.  
**

* * *

**0419 hours, 19th September, 2552 (Military Calendar)****  
Threshold system, Unidentified Alien Construct  
Covenant-held Installation  
**

Montag followed Sergeant Morris down the right hand ramp and through the unlocked door. Everyone was silent; the Covenant had time to prepare for the Marine assault. There was no knowing what was waiting for them. Ten meters down, and the Marines came to a halt in front of another door. Everyone spread out along the sides of the hall. Any Covenant in the room would be caught in a deadly hail of gunfire.

Morris waved his hand at the door, and it slid open.

Nothing.

Montag, on orders, slowly crawled out into the room and looked around.

It was roughly circular and split down the middle, Upspin to Downspin, by a deep rectangular pit that stretched wall to wall. Four pillars were on each side of the pit, and there were holographic panels along the walls.

But there were no Covenant.

Sierra squad was on the northern half of the room. Montag walked to the pit and kicked a bit of debris down into it. The pit seemed to be bottomless, without end on either side.

The Marines moved into the room. The doors they entered were on the upspin side on either side of the pit. Morris's squad came in through the northern door, and Mobuto's squad came in through the southern door. They all gathered in the center of the room, with the pit between them

"Looks like there ain't nobody home... Where they all go?" one of the Marines drawled with a deep Australian accent. He backed away from the pit.

Morris looked across the pit at Sergeant Mobuto. "No other door. Time to go back to the surface."

"Looks like it."

A high pitched keening drew their attention to the ceiling of the room. There, crowded around a partially disassembled machine, were a handful of aliens. They looked vaguely like floating squid, with tentacles that split into smaller cilia. They were hovering around the machine, and seemed to be inspecting it while taking it apart.

One of the Marines aimed his assault rifle at them. "What the Hell are those?"

Mobuto reached over and lowered her assault rifle. "Covenant mechanics. They're completely harmless."

Reluctantly, Morris backed down.

Mobuto clicked his teeth thoughtfully. "I've seen them repair just about anything. If we capture them and take them back to the base, they could actually help out."

Morris shook his head. Taking Covenant back to the base didn't even sound good. "They're Covenant. Why would they help us?"

Mobuto was just about to answer when he was interrupted.

"Oi, check this out!"

With a running start, the Australian Marine leaped over the two meter wide pit and landed on Morris's side, almost knocking Montag over.

Mobuto cursed. "_Private, if I catch you goofing off like that again, I'll personally_..."  
A sudden hissing sound made everyone turn and face the southern wall. The wall was being drawn up like a garage door, and a dozen Grunts ran out, howling and yelling in their alien language.

The Marines raised their weapons and opened fire, slaughtering the Grunts. One Grunt had the presence of mind to pull out a plasma grenade and arm it, only to get a .50 caliber bullet through the head, courtesy of Montag. The grenade hissed, then exploded, leaving a crater in the ground and launching the Grunts into the air.

The Grunts were dead, but the commotion they had caused served its purpose. While the Marines were facing south and wiping out the Grunts, a door on the Northern wall opened unheard.

Revealing an Elite piloted Shade, flanked by four more Elites.

* * *

**North Side of Base Floor, 0423 Hours**

Major Domo Rhut 'Alesanee watched the door open with anticipation. The Unggoy had obeyed their orders well, sacrificing themselves for the sake of the Sangheili. But their sacrifice would not be in vain.

No, the Shade that 'Alesanee piloted would incinerate the humans, ending their defilement of the Sacred Relic that was Halo.

The door was completely open.

Rhut 'Alesanee aimed the Shade, barked a quick order to his subordinates, and then pulled the trigger.

* * *

**Center of Base Floor, 0423 Hours**

The Australian Marine next to Montag was struck first.

When plasma hits a human body, it doesn't just burn the skin. It fries the skin to a cinder. The water, oxygen, oils, etc, burst into steam and expand at an explosive rate, creating an explosion similar to that of a small firecracker. The effects on the human body, however, are far worse than what a firecracker can do.

The plasma bolts from the Shade hit the Australian Marine in the chest, melting his armor, incinerating everything on down to his lungs, and pushing him back into the pit. Seconds later, his grenades and ammo cooked off, killing him.

Everyone else tried to dive for cover behind the pillars. Montag, however, had been knocked over by the Marine's cadaver. He hit the ground, rolled and fell over the edge of the pit and into the abyss.

* * *

**North Side of Base Floor, 0424 Hours**

Rhut 'Alesanee was somewhat less than pleased at the mayhem he and his subordinates were unleashing upon the Humans. He had killed one and forced another over the edge; and the other two had scored hits, but the remaining Humans had succeeded in getting under cover behind the pillars.

Two Sangheili, both inexperienced Minor Domos, ran out and began engaging the Marines behind the pillars, dodging the fire from the Human's primitive projectile weapons.

Considering his options, Rhut Alesanee ordered the other two Sangheili to put down a suppressing fire while he attempted to burn through the pillars.

He would cut the squad of Marines down to size.

Then he and the other two would engage the Marines in a more honorable fashion, with only their wits and plasma rifles.

* * *

_Gui Montag had been sick with strep throat before._

_He remembered being nauseous, ready to vomit at a moments notice. He remembered being drenched in sweat, wondering if he was going to die._

_This was almost exactly what Montag felt like just now. Add in a large dollop of fear, and that's exactly what he was feeling right now._

_The APC was only moderately armored, and had twelve Marines crammed into the hold. Another thing the APC lacked was a decent suspension system. Potholes, debris, bodies, the Marines felt the Cougar running over every one of them._

_Montag leaned over to the Marine sitting next to him. "'How hard can it be?'" he asked in Russian. "Well, we're about to find out, aren't we?"_

_The Marine in question, Hans Kantorek, groaned. He was pasty white, and had already vomited. His excuse, everyone's excuse, including Montag's, was that this was his first engagement ever. There were some things that Basic never prepared you for. _

_"Right now, I'd like to admit that signing up wasn't such a good idea." he replied, again in Russian.  
_

_Montag shook his head. He'd planned on signing up, but Kantorek had suggested that the whole class sign up. Montag's experience with guns was limited to riveters. Kantorek's only experience with guns had probably been his Vir (Virtual Reality) system._

_"So you admit you're wrong about something? That's a first." Montag said bitterly. _

_"Hey!" a Marine said, sitting across the APC from them. "What the Hell are you guys saying?" He was speaking English, and had an American look to him._

_"Sorry." Montag apologized in English, with a slight accent. "We were talking in Russian."_

_Kantorek held out his hand, gagged as if he was about to throw up, and then started talking in heavily accented English. "Hans Kantorek. What's your name."_

_"Jimmy Rayndar. This you're first tour?"_

_"Da," said Montag. "It was either this or the Gulag for him. I'm Gui Montag."_

_Jimmy Rayndar looked puzzled. "That's not exactly a Russian name."_

_"Theres a story behind that..."_

_The Cougar lurched to a halt, and the Sergeant stood up. "Alright Marines! We're here, and we're here to kick some Covenant Arse!_

_The Marines stood up, and started locking and loading. Montag's right hand fingered his sniper rifle, while the other touched the M6C in it's holster._

_The door opened, and the marines piled out._

_The nighttime battlefield was a mess. Mud was everywhere, trenches had been dug, and Machine gun nests were spewing out tracers, aided by Scorpions and Cougars._

_Out yonder, beyond the trenches, amongst the yellow explosions, Montag could see the Covenant highlighted in his holographic HMD. Grunts returned fire with their pistols and needlers, Jackals provided cover with their shields, and Ghosts flitted around the battlefield, hunting down the Marines._

_The Covenant were numberless. Their body counts were rising fast, but so was the humans' losses._

_Montag looked behind him and found that Kantorek and Rayndar had hung back with him, staring in horror at the battlefield._

_Then Kantorek laughed._

_"I've got that stupid song stuck in my head," he said in English. "That one they were singing at the parade."  
_

_"The Day of Glory?" Montag asked._

_"Ja."_

_Montag didn't reply. He had some words stuck in his head, but not 'The Day of Glory.' He was thinking about something Kantorek had said outside the Recruiting center, and again at the Parade._

_"How hard could it be?" Kantorek had asked.

* * *

_Montag felt a fleeting sense of vertigo as he fell into the pit. The Abyss yawned before him, stretching to infinity, as time slowed to a crawl. The shouts of his fellow Marines and the whining of plasma faded into the background. He could feel the air rush past his ears as he careened over the edge of the pit. He had been out for not more than a second...

Was that all it had been?

Then Montag's right arm shot out and caught the edge of the pit, swinging him around and slamming him against the wall.

His Rifle slipped from his hands and started to fall before he stuck his leg out and snagged the shoulder strap with his foot.

The sudden movement was too much. He slowly started to lose his grip on the ledge. Slowly, he reached down with his right hand and brought his leg up, trying to grab the Rifle.

The strain was extraordinary. His fingers felt like they were on fire, and dots swam before his eyes. He forced himself to concentrate, ignored the pain, and slowly continued to reach for the Rifle. The strap was within his grasp. His fingertips were grazing it.

His ring finger slipped off the ledge. Montag was holding on with two fingers. Luckily, these fingers were quite strong from regularly pulling triggers for so many years.

THERE! He got it! Montag swung the Rifle across his back and grabbed onto the ledge with his left hand, shaking his right hand to get the pain out.

The Elites were still firing, purple and blue bolts of plasma sweeping back and forth, illuminating the entire room. His fingers, the only part of him visible, had not been seen.

The Marines were shooting back at the Covenant, with Mobuto doing most of the damage, switching between grenades and his assault rifle. He had already taken one of the Elites out, and the other one was attracting all the bullets.  
Montag closed his eyes and tried to remember what he had seen in the Northern room before the Elites had opened fire.

The room had appeared to be quite small, maybe three meters wide, and five meters deep. Just barely wide enough for a Shade and two flanking Elites. Montag thought for a moment, then reached down with his right hand into a small pouch sewn onto his leg, withdrawing a baseball sized blue sphere. With a surge of strength, Montag pulled himself up, propped himself up on the ledge with his elbows, primed the plasma grenade, and threw it.

* * *

Rhut Alesanee was mildly surprised to see the Marine appear out of the pit. Hadn't that Marine been pushed in?

Rhut Alesanee was even more surprised to see the glowing blue grenade sail through the air and land on the barrel of the Shade. He wasted no time in leaping backward out of the Shade, barely escaping the explosion. Even so, the blast wave threw him against the back wall of the room.

He stood unsteadily and glanced at the Shade. All that remained was a smoking shell, black as night. The capacitor had blown, creating a secondary explosion that had killed the two Minor Domos, and shorted out his shields.

Not seeing the Marine in time was an oversight, a disgrace. And now the Marines outnumbered him, and would certainly kill him if he tried to attack them.

But that was the Path to Redemption...

Without further ado, Rhut Alesanee drew his plasma rifle and leaped over the Shade.

He would have the pleasure of spilling the blood of the Marine that had disgraced him with his own hands, before the other Marines killed him.

* * *

Montag was in the process of pulling himself to safety when the Red Elite leapt over the remains of the Shade, screaming battle cries in its alien language. The other Marines saw the Elite too, and started firing their weapons. Montag himself ripped the Handgun out of its holster and started firing at it without taking the time to turn on the HMD targeting system. Bullets from assault rifles and shotgun shells were impacting on the Elites armor, leaving dents, holes, or sparking and ricocheting.

Montag didn't bother with a headshot, even though the Elites shields were clearly out of action. He aimed for the chest, the explosive bullets from the Handgun punching through the Red armor.

The Elite was less than five meters away, raising its plasma rifle over its head, clearly intending to use it as a club. It was bleeding from dozens of wounds, many of which would have killed a human. The Elite itself would clearly die, but it had no intention of living.

Kamikaze

Suicide killer.

The Elite was less than three meters away, running as fast as an Olympic runner, hell-bent on killing Montag. It began to dive, leaping into a tackle that would push it and Montag into the pit.

BOOM. The Handgun fired, bucking in Montag's hands, leaving a gaping hole in the Elite's helmet.

BOOM. The Handgun fired again, ricocheting off the Elite's armor.

Click. The Handgun didn't fire. In the six seconds since the Elite had charged, Montag had fired all seven bullets.

Had it really been six seconds? It had seemed more like an Eternity. Now all Montag could do was stare the Elite in the eyes, only a meter from him, filled with rage and anguish.

Montag snapped out of his reverie and threw the Handgun across the floor. It skidded, kicking up sparks until it hit the wall.

Montag, still holding onto the edge of the pit, grabbed the ledge with both hands and dropped until the ledge was above his head, and he was dangling from the ledge like he was doing pull ups.

The Elite missed him by centimeters, overshooting him and slamming into the opposite wall of the pit, then falling into the abyss below.

Montag dangled from the edge of the pit, trying to regain his strength. Now that the adrenaline surge was over, his arms felt like they were on fire. If he held on for too long, he might lose his strength and fall into the abyss. Enduring the pain, Montag tried to pull himself up one last time.

Then he saw a hand above him. It was Liz, trying to help him up.

"Need a lift?"

He could have given a sarcastic reply. He could have scorned her.

He simply ignored her and pulled himself up to safety. After that he just lied down on the floor, breathing heavily, his whole body on fire.

Sergeant Morris walked up and looked down at him.

"Good job Marine. That's the second time you saved our hides."

Montag nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"_Alright Marines! Five minute breather, and then it's back on up to the surface_!"

* * *

**A/N: Sorry it took so long to update. Several things happened. First, the flashback gave me a lot of trouble writing, and I had to use a different scene. Second, I got bummed out when I heard that Bungie is not going to be producing any more Halo games...**

**I'll update next week, as I have the next chapter written out already.**

**Don't forget to review!**


	12. Defense from the Offense

**Gui Montag is unique. He usually has a better grasp of the situation than his peers, and has a mind for tactics. Those are great qualifications for a Sergeant or a Sniper, and he doesn't strike me as the kind of guy who can lead a squad.**

**Drill Sergeant Alan Dubrinsky**

* * *

"WHOOOHOOO!" 

The Ghost Private Kanoff was riding hit the Wraith and shot up into the air, spinning 720 degrees before landing again. Kanoff drove unsteadily back to the building, giving Da Vega the opportunity to do the same stunt.

Both of them had been temporarily grouped into Tango squad, and had been ordered to stay on the surface with nine others in order to fend off any Covenant attacks.

Tango squad had captured four Shade turrets, which were stationed at the upper deck of the "beacon tower", the official designation of the building they had captured. Now four Marines manned the Shade turrets, after they had cleaned up some of the Grunt blood. Another three Marines were spaced around the upper level of the beacon tower, one armed with a sniper rifle, the rest with assault rifles and Jackhammers.

That left Kanoff and Da Vega to the Ghosts, for "scouting and anti infantry purposes." That had quickly changed to riding down the hill next to the tower and flying off the remains of the Wraith, which had proved to be a more than adequate ramp. They were cheered on by their comrades on the tower. Each pass had spawned crazier and crazier stunts until Kanoff had sent his crashing while trying to do a double flip and a 360 at the same time. Now, they were just limiting themselves to jumping and simpler tricks.

"Mobuto's coming; everyone look busy!" someone said over the radio.  
Kanoff and Da Vega quickly drove back to the tower. One Banshee, which had been doing loop de loops and barrel rolls straightened out and began flying around the perimeter. The other Banshee stopped flying around the energy beam that gave the beacon tower its name and flew out to scan the grove of trees at the top of the hill. The two other Banshees that had been captured were flying guardian on a pair of Pelicans that were carrying Shades and cargo containers back to the base.

Sierra squad and the rest of Tango squad walked out of the doorway that led into the bowels of the tower. Kanoff drove right up to Mobuto and Morris.

"What's the situation?" Mobuto asked.

"Perimeter has been secured, no hostiles have been detected." Kanoff replied.

"Good."

"Sir, there's something weird about these vehicles. The boost function is missing from the controls of the Banshees and Ghosts." Kanoff was moving his Ghost side to side, strafing left and right.

"Missing as in deactivated?"

"No, missing as in they were never there."

Mobuto walked around the Ghost and looked at the controls. "Huh… Weird."

Morris walked up. "Anyone notice that the weapons and armor are different too? The needlers fire slower, and some of the Grunts have a weird curl-back design on their armor." He held up a needler. Something seemed… different about it, somehow.

Montag took the needler, aimed it away from the group, and fired. The needles shot out over a wide area, not targeting anything, firing and moving slower than the Marines were used to. Once the ammunition ran out, Montag hefted the needler and studied it.

"It's one of the older designs. I'm sure I saw it... five years ago. Haven't seen this model since."

"Who made you the expert?" Morris muttered.

Mobuto was a little more positive. "If it's an obsolete design, why is it here?"

Everyone thought for a second. Then Montag spoke. "Sir, remember how the Covenant are supposed to be imitative rather than innovative? They get their technology from some other advanced race or something."

Everyone nodded. They had read the ONI reports, but they had only half believed them. A race even more advanced than the Covenant was something nobody wanted to think about.

"Well, the Covenant don't have any permanent structures built here, so they can't have been here long. And this ringworld is several hundred orders of magnitude bigger than anything we've seen them build. Maybe this is a construct of that ancient alien race that the Covenant hero-worship."

"Sounds plausible. So, Sherlock, how does this tie in with the weapons?" Mobuto asked pointedly.

Montag smiled. "So, if you're some fanatically religious race that is waging a huge and expensive war against humans, and you have just discovered a gargantuan and sacred gift from God, would you expect the scum of the universe to show up and infest your sacred prize? No, you probably would have used outdated troops to secure and explore the Ring. Troops that would not be missed on the front lines. Ergo, we are currently fighting outdated, if well trained troops that are using outdated equipment that hasn't been seen in battle for a good five years."

"What are you, some kind of genius?" Morris asked irritably, although had to agree with Montag's logic.

Sergeant Mobuto agreed with Montag. "Makes some sense. Besides, if you have an unlimited army like the Covenant, you'd have trouble keeping them all supplied too."

Mobuto was speaking from knowledge. The UNSC Department of Supply had six Dumb AIs dedicated to keeping track of equipment and information on equipment. Another two Dumb AI's were dedicated to getting up-to-date equipment to where it needed to go. As was pointed out in the five hundred year old short story, "the Run to Hardscrabble Station," Supply had one of the toughest jobs in the military.

A high pitched whining interrupted them, and two Pelicans flew around the tower, escorted by a pair of Banshees.

"This is Cardinal to Ground Teams," the radio crackled. "We are running low on fuel, and will have to start taking soldiers back to the Base along with the armor."

Morris chewed angrily on the cigarette he was smoking. If they had to reduce Marines and armor, then that would leave the ground teams more vulnerable to attack by Covenant forces.

"Start taking the Shades, Cardinal." Morris then switched to command frequency. "Tango Squad: Git yer sorry little hides on those Pelicans, on the double." Command Base Beta needed those Shades more than they needed the Ghosts. The two Pelicans could carry most of the Marines in Sierra squad, and each Pelican could carry two Shades. Leaving Morris with three Ghosts and two Banshees to defend the tower.

The Shades were tied down to the underbelly of the Pelican, duct taped there for extra measure. Then half of the Marines loaded themselves into the two Pelicans, leaving all of Sierra squad, with Kanoff and Da Vega left behind.

The heavily burdened Pelicans slowly lifted off, and flew to Command Base Beta. Two of the Banshees took off and escorted the Pelicans.

Montag set out for the top of the hill next to the beacon tower, followed by Private Lincoln. The top of the hill provided the best view of the surrounding area, and Montag could easily see anything trying to assault the tower or the hill.

* * *

Sergeant Morris was double checking the Marines positions when the call came in from the Banshees. 

"SIR, I SEE A GROUP OF THREE BANSHEES INBOUND FROM THE EAST. ETA THREE MINUTES."

Morris looked around at the Marines. He had eleven Marines on the tower, and three driving Ghosts. Another two were flying the Banshees, and Montag and Lincoln were out providing parallel sniper cover.

He had grouped the eleven Marines on the tower into groups of threes, each group providing cover for one side of the tower. The side of the tower facing the canyon was unguarded, because an infantry attack was more likely to come from the front.

He had counted on the Covenant arriving via dropship or on foot. However, he had a plan for dealing with an air attack.

"Everyone get down and hide. Banshees hang out around the back of the tower and get ready to ambush. Ghosts, you lure them boogies in, get them nice and low. Hit it people!"

* * *

Montag had reached the top of the hill and had dug in. He found a place where a tree trunk had fallen across two boulders, forming a natural foxhole. Private Lincoln had dug into a small warren a couple feet to Montag's left, where they could see and hear each other. 

As Montag's armor darkened to suit the ambient light, he quickly pulled off his backpack and unfolded it, unloading boxes of ammo. He dug the Handgun out of it's holster, cleaned the outside, reloaded it, and set it next to the ammo. Less than thirty seconds had passed since he pulled off the backpack. Classic.

They heard a high pitched whining sound, and three Banshees flew over them in a typical delta pattern. The Banshees broke up and engaged the Marines on the Ghosts.

"Lower, lower…" Private Lincoln muttered. He was agitated, excited. Not good for a sniper, Montag thought. Excitement prevented one from making rational decisions, prevented one from accurately shooting. As you breathed faster, your heart beat faster, both of which screwed up your accuracy.

There was a droning sound besides the wail of the Banshees, and a Spirit dropship flew over them, drifted halfway down the hill, and unloaded the troops: four Grunts, three Jackals and an Elite.

"S---" Lincoln cursed out loud.

The Marines on the Ghosts were caught in a hail of crossfire from both Banshees and Covenant, forcing the Marines on the tower to open fire. The Banshees broke off and began dogfighting with the Marine controlled Banshees which had come around the tower into the fight. Morris's plan to ambush the Banshees hadn't worked out all that well.

Private Lincoln settled his targets on a Jackal. The Jackal in question was hiding behind its shield, pouring plasma on the defenders of the tower. He pulled the trigger, blowing the top of the Jackals head off.

"One shot, one kill." Lincoln crowed, aiming at another Jackal.

Montag looked at Lincoln with an expression bordering on disgust. Then he took aim, paused, and pulled the trigger.

A Banshee flying directly away from Montag lost control and began to decelerate. It crashed into the tower and bounced off. The hood popped opened, letting the mangled body of an Elite fall out.

"Holy s, did you just…" Lincoln started to say.

Montag quickly took aim again.

CRACK!

The Rifle bucked in his hands, and the lone Elite staggered downhill, almost losing its balance, its shields flaring.

CRACK!

The Elite died, rolling downhill and sending the Grunts scattering. The Jackals turned to deal with this new threat.

CRACK!

The bullet entered a Jackal's left eye, blowing out the right side of its face.

Montag ejected the cartridge and inserted a new one, but he was too late. Private Lincoln had killed the last Jackal, and the human controlled Ghosts were busy herding the Grunts. The last Covenant Banshee went down, impaled by a fuel rod. The Human Banshees, however, were trailing smoke, and one had a bent wing. The only undamaged Banshee left was the one Montag shot down.

Morris was checking up on the other Marines. Most of them were ok, but some had plasma burns that needed to be treated ASAP. Given the suddenness of the attack, Morris was surprised that no more were hurt. It would be another twenty-five minutes until the Pelicans returned, at the least, and Morris knew they weren't out of it yet; they needed every person they had.

Montag was going through the Ritual, notching the Rifle with the Knife. Three Elites and two Grunts on the platform, as well as the three cloaked Elites inside the complex. The Knife got three notches for the two Elites killed by the plasma grenade. Montag was trying to decide whether he should add another notch to the Knife for Rhut Alesanee when Private Lincoln crawled over.

Lincoln paused, watching Montag clean the Knife, and then he asked the question that had been bugging him.

"How did you shoot down the Banshee?"

Montag stared at Lincoln.

"I've been thinking about it for a few minutes, and I still can't figure out how you did it.

Montag sighed. "There's a small hole in the back where the hood meets the fins. It's about the size of your fist, and it leaves the pilot exposed, especially since they power down their shields to pilot the Banshees."

"Oh, right." Lincoln said distractedly.

"And you can forget about trying to shoot it yourself. I've seen your 'marksmanship', and it's pathetic."

"Hey, man, I was just asking a question…"

"And I'm giving you your answer. If you can hit a moving Grunt at four hundred meters, accounting for bullet drop, crosswinds, and everything, then you can probably make the shot. But _you_ can't even hit a stationary Elite at three hundred meters."  
"Hey, if _you _know so much about sniping, how come you're just an entry level jarhead?"

"The _real _question is; why are you a sniper? I mean, honestly, 'One shot, one kill'? The first thing you learn in basic training is that 'One shot, one kill' is a load of Hollywood B.S."

"Well, the truth is, I didn't go through sniper training, OK? I learned it in combat. One day, in the middle of a firefight, my CO gave me a sniper rifle and told me to start shooting, and now I'm doing it again."

"So you learned to shoot in combat," Montag mused. "Good. I thought you learned it on your Xbox Generations."

Private Lincoln was going to crawl back to his foxhole. There was no recovering from an insult that bad.

"Get back here."

Lincoln hesitated, giving Montag a curious look.

Montag pulled out the Handgun, flicked off the safety, and aimed it at Lincoln's head. "Get over here. Now."

Lincoln broke out into a sweat and crawled to Montag. It wasn't the gun he feared. It was the liquid helium coldness in Montag's eyes.

"Take your sniper rifle, and put a single bullet in that boulder on the other side of the beacon tower."

Lincoln was sweating bullets. He was breathing even faster now. Looking through his sniper rifle, he saw the boulder Montag was talking about. It was about four meters across, and 700 meters away. Placing the reticule over the boulder and pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

Not even close. He had been shaking way too much.

Montag flipped the Handgun around and hit Lincoln across the head with it. Lincoln cried out in pain.

"Listen: my chances of survival depend upon you being able to hit a target at 500 meters." Montag whispered in a tone that sent shivers running down Lincoln's spine. "If you can't do that, I might as well as cut you to pieces and take your ammo. Do you understand me?"

Private Lincoln nodded.

"First, calm down, and breathe slowly."

Lincoln started to comment on how hard it was to calm down when you have a .50 caliber pressed against your head, but followed Montag's advice. He slowed down his breathing, actually.

"Now, aim at the boulder again. Don't let the barrel touch anything."

Lincoln complied. He shifted a little to get the barrel free of the weeds, and aimed at the boulder. He was still shaking though.

"Now, shoot at that rock again. Shoot in between breaths."

Lincoln sighted in on the boulder, blinked sweat out of his eyes, and steeled his nerves. Then he fired.

The bullet ricocheted off of the top of the boulder. Lincoln was amazed. He had never been able to make a shot like that.

Montag pursed his lips.

"Fine. Next time, allow for the wind. Now get back to your foxhole."

Lincoln crawled as fast as he could. He couldn't wait to get a mound of rocks and dirt between him and Montag.

A low, droning sound stopped him, however. Both he and Montag paused for a minute, trying to find out where the sound was coming from.

Two Spirit dropships rose out of the canyon and landed on the upper deck of the beacon tower.

Lincoln switched on his radio and hailed Sergeant Morris. "Sergeant, you got two dropships out of the canyon landing on your six. Take cover."

The dropships opened their doors, and the occupants all hopped out at once. The dropships had come fully loaded, but had only come with Jackals and Elites. The Covenant meant business.

"Sergeant, the Covenant have only Jackals and Elites. They're ticked about something."

* * *

Morris ducked as a dozen plasma bolts whizzed past his head. He called for his Marines to retreat to the open, broad part of the deck. There were some Covenant crates and other doodads that his Marines could take cover behind. 

In the meantime, he ordered his Banshees forward to buy his Marines some time. The Banshees got off two shots from their fuel rod cannons before they were forced to engage two other Banshees that had come in with the Spirits.

Meanwhile, Morris and his Marines were forced to go up against about twenty Jackals and Elites.

* * *

Montag watched as the Covenant leapt out of the dropships and began to advance upon the Marines. 

"Aim for the Jackals first; that will leave the Elites exposed to the other Marines," he ordered Private Lincoln.

Lincoln nodded and aimed. He started squeezing off rounds.

Montag took aim, and the world shrank down to just him and the world at the other end of his scope.

CRACK!

A Jackal that had yet to switch on its shield fell, a huge gash across its neck.

CRACK!

A Jackal fell off the edge of the deck, an exit hole the size of Montag's fist in its chest.

The rest of the Jackals turned their shields towards Montag and Lincoln, firing their guns at the snipers. Useless, but an effective distraction, as neither Montag nor Lincoln could afford to be hit.

CRACK!

The bullet impacted exactly in the center of a shield, destroying the magnetic field projector that shaped the shield. The shield powered down, leaving the Jackal helpless.

CRACK!

The Jackals head exploded lengthwise. The body stood for a second, then toppled over.

Montag ejected the empty clip and slid a fresh one home. He was down to three clips, and another one with only one bullet in it.

* * *

Da Vega drove her Ghost up the hill as fast as it could go. She and Kanoff could effectively combat the Covenant on the Ghosts, but they had no way of driving the Ghosts up there. At least Kanoff didn't. Da Vega had an idea, but she wasn't sure if it would work. At the very least, trying was better than letting the other Marines die. 

At the top of the hill, she spun the Ghost around 180 degrees and sped back down the hill, constantly accelerating.

40 mph… 50 mph… then 60 mph. The Ghost was accelerating so fast that Da Vega was pressed back into the seat. It was uncomfortable at the very least, since the seats had been designed with an Elite's physiology in mind. She didn't notice, however, since she was concentrating on the burnt wreck of a Wraith that had been destroyed at the bottom of the hill when the Marines first attacked. She and Kanoff had been goofing off earlier, and had used the Wraith as a ramp for jumping the Ghosts…

The Ghost hit the Wraith, scraping out the underbelly and cascading sparks as the Ghost drove up the front of the Wraith. Da Vega felt extremely heavy as the G forces pulled her into the seat of the Ghost. Then she felt weightless as the Ghost flew off the Wraith at seventy miles per hour and soared into the air.

* * *

Montag couldn't help but watch as Da Vega sped down the hill and used the Wraith as a takeoff ramp. And he couldn't help but feel a twinge of admiration for her… creativity, if that was the word for it. What she was doing _was _ingenious, _if_ she made it. What she was doing, however, could also be described as reckless, suicidal, doomed to failure. But hey, at least it would be entertaining to watch. 

He turned his scope back up to the upper deck of the beacon tower. The Covenant had split up into two groups, one coming down the middle of the deck to the Marines, the other group sneaking around the edge of the deck. A pincer movement. Meanwhile, the Marines had taken shelter behind some Covenant crates and a communications array.

* * *

One of the remaining Jackals in the group sneaking around the Marines heard something besides the whine of plasma and the thunder of assault rifles. It was a screeching sound, like metal scraping against metal at high speeds. And there was another sound, the whining sound of a Ghost. 

The Jackal looked out to the west of the beacon tower, where the noise had come from. What he saw shocked him. But instead of ducking, which might have saved his life, the Jackal pointed and yelled.

Da Vega's Ghost flew off the Wraith and soared through the air. For her, time seemed to slow down. The wind in her ears slowed down to a steady roar. The sounds of battle on the beacon tower even seemed to slow to a crawl, with periodic bursts of bullets.

As the Ghost arced toward the upper deck of the beacon tower, she saw a Jackal turn in her direction, do a double take, then point at her and scream.

The Elites began to turn and see her. She saw their jaws drop in disbelief and surprise. The Reds started shooting at her with their plasma rifles, but only hit the front of the Ghost.

"Too late," She thought with a wide grin on her face.

The Ghost reached the upper deck and plowed through the Covenant, killing Jackals and scattering Elites in her wake. Some Elites managed to dive out of the way, but most of them fell beneath the onrushing Ghost. She left the first group of Covenant and hammered the second group in the middle of the deck. This group was no better prepared than the first group, and they too were scattered like bowling pins.

Da Vega exited the second group of Covenant and spun the Ghost around to face them. When the Ghost was lined up, Da Vega pulled the trigger, pumping both plasma cannons into the Covenant. The Elites whose shields had been depleted when they were run over died almost immediately under the deadly crossfire of lead from the Marines and plasma from Da Vega. Their armor boiled away, and their bodies were ripped to shreds under the onslaught. The Elites that had dived out of the way lasted long enough to fire their weapons at Da Vega, but they suffered the same fate as their comrades.

The last of the Covenant ground forces were dead. And only one Banshee was left, dogfighting with the last human controlled Banshee. Immediately after Da Vega's attack, it turned towards the cluster of Marines, its fuel rod cannon heating up. The Marines wouldn't be able to take it down in time, and the human controlled Banshee was slowly spiraling to the ground, losing power.

The Banshee was moments from firing its fuel rod cannon when it exploded in a flash of green light.

"Hey Morris; looks like you guys needed help." The radio chirped. Seconds later, two Banshees flew around the tower, followed by two Pelicans.

"Naw, but we'll be generous and think about giving you an assist on that one."

"Sheesh, save a platoon of Marines and look at the thanks you get."

The Pelicans touched down, and most of the Marines crowded around. Morris pointed at Jonesy and Da Vega.  
"You two get to rescue our downed pilots. If they're dead, get their dog tags. If not, then patch them up and bring them over. Kanoff, you pilot the Banshee that Montag shot down. THE REST OF YOU GET TO HELP US LOAD UP THESE GHOSTS."

* * *

It was harder than it looked. The Marines eventually ended up using the clamp magnets on the Pelicans underbelly to secure the Ghosts, and then they made sure the Ghosts stayed with a mixture of towing cable and duct tape. It was tough going, as the Ghosts had never been designed to be carried by the Pelicans, and visa versa. 

Morris stood back and admired the Marines' handiwork when they were done.

June, standing next to him, shrugged. "Looks like one of those mating rituals you see on the Nature channel."

"Then that has to be the strangest mating ritual I've ever seen. And it's probably going to result in an ugly-A child too."

The pilot of the Pelican patched in on the radio. "Can't be any uglier than yours, Morris."

"Hey! That child was yours too!"

Da Vega and the other Marine walked back from the wreckages of the Banshees. In Da Vega's hands were two dog tags. Everyone was silent for their lost comrades, except for Montag.

Montag climbed into the Pelican and sat in the nearest seat, strapping himself in.

_A dead man is a dead man. No thoughts to think, no tears to cry._

Morris sighed, looking back at the beacon tower. "Alrigh' men; we're leaving. Get on board and saddle up.

* * *

The Pelican took off as fast as it could go with the cargo. Almost immediately, Sergeant Morris noticed something strange. He banged on the cabin door. 

"Hey, you're going the wrong way. Command base Beta is downspin, not upspin."

The pilot answered back on the radio. "Well Sarge, we're taking a little detour. We're visiting the horse we rode in on."

"What! Then why the hell did we just go through all that for?"

"Sorry sir. I'm just a grunt here. You're going to have to take that up with Command."

Morris sat back in his seat, fuming. The Marines had almost been killed dozens of times, and here they were, getting thrown back into the fray.

No rest for the wicked.

* * *

**A/N: Hmm. A little long there, longer than usual. Not too long I hope.**

**Yes, they are going back to the Pillar of Autumn. Hopefully, I should be able to give more background info on the characters, and develop Montag a little more.**

**And "The Run to Hardscrabble Station" I mentioned really is a short story about military supply. It was written by none other than...**

**William C. Dietz! **

** Don't forget to R&R!  
**


	13. Here Again?

**Yeah, the platoon I was in once fought along with 'Demarest's Devils'... It was kinda interesting. Try and imagine a platoon of veteran Marines hellbent on causing the Covenant as much misery as possible, and led by the most sadistic lieutenant you'll ever meet.**

**Sergeant 'Buck-eye' Bingham**

* * *

**0645 Hours, 19th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Pelican (Hotel-798) 3487 Meters Upspin from UNSC Pillar of Autumn  
Unidentified Artifact  
**

In the action movies, despite what the laws of physics said, Navy Captains are always able to crash land Carriers and Cruisers on a planet's surface, generally intact enough to take off again after a few hours of repair.

And here, just like in the movies, was the Pillar of Autumn in one piece, although Gui Montag doubted it would ever fly again. It was buried in a several kilometer long crater, at the edge of a cliff. A few more kph more, and the Pillar of Autumn would have gone into the bay.

Around it was a sea of debris. Titanium A plates were buried in the ground, and structural steel was poking out of the dirt every now and then, preceded by furrows and trenches. As you got closer to the cruiser, there was different debris. Covenant and human bodies, the remains of vehicles, and a few wrecked Spirit dropships. Marines had abandoned the Pillar of Autumn, and Marines had fought to get her back.

But the Pillar of Autumn was worth fighting for. She was a treasure trove of equipment and ammo, just waiting to be plundered. To the Navy personnel, it was like robbing the dead, but the Marines were more practical. You couldn't live unless you fought, but you couldn't fight unless you had food and ammo.

The Pelicans landed near a docking bay at ground level, around which was clustered a score of Warthogs. More Pelicans were inbound from both bases.

Morris was the first out, and the rest of the Marines followed. Montag stayed behind for a minute to duct-tape a rip in his backpack. Later, he would find a more permanent fix, but for now, he was interrupted by someone who sounded like he had a chip on his shoulder.

"So, do you have a bug up your arse, or are you always like this?"

Montag turned around. At the front of the Pelican, Private Lincoln was standing, glaring at him. Surprisingly brave when nobody else was around.

"What do you mean?"

Lincoln stepped forward. "First, you put a gun to my head. Then, you ignore the fact that two Marines just gave their lives so the rest of us could live. What the Hell is wrong with you?"

A change came over Montag. All emotion drained from his face, and his visible eye suddenly went cold. In one smooth motion, he picked up the Rifle, switched off the safety, and aimed it at Lincoln's head. The muzzle was just centimeters from his forehead.

"Three billion," Montag said, a hard edge in his voice. "Eight hundred and thirty six million, three hundred and forty thousand dead. What difference does a few more make?"

Montag pushed Lincoln's helmet up with the Rifle, exposing his forehead. Lincoln's fists balled up, he gritted his teeth.

"You're friggin' insane, aren't you?" Lincoln was angry, beyond reason. The fact that he shouldn't be antagonizing Montag at this point didn't occur to him..

"Ashes and glass, " Montag said, as his finger slowly tightened on the trigger...

"MONTAG! LINCOLN! GET YER ARSES OUT HERE!"

Montag looked behind Lincoln out the back of the Pelican, and then lowered the Rifle. Glancing back at Lincoln, he picked up his backpack and walked out of the Pelican.

Lincoln just stood there, confused. Montag had gone from indifferent, to homicidal, to simply ignoring him in a matter of seconds. What was wrong with him?

* * *

**Docking bay E-02, 0650 Hours**

The docking bay was huge, with thousands of crates arranged in tall stacks with alleyways in between. Forklifts drove around, carrying the desired crates towards a large stack, where the crates waited to be loaded. Marines had set up barricades near the doors, and many were milling about, waiting to delve deeper into the ship.

"Find out if they need any help," Morris ordered the Marines. He walked over near the stack of crates to where a table had been set up. On the table was a large collection of radio equipment, and a few commanding officers.

"All you guys from Alpha?"

One of the officers looked up from the equipment. She had her hair buzz cut, worn short at the sides and cut flat on top. She studied Morris with a pair of piercing green eyes.

"Yes," First Lieutenant McKay replied. "You're the guy Beta sent over?"

"Well, I'm the first here, and more are on their way. How are we dividing up the goods?"

Lieutenant McKay shook her head. "It would be easier if we all gathered at one base."

Morris shrugged. He was the next step up from a grunt, and she was talking to him about major strategic decisions. "You'll have to talk to my superiors about that. I'm just the gofer."

McKay gestured towards a hologram of the Pillar of Autumn. "We are in one of the lower docking bays, so we have no shortage of Warthogs or Pelicans. We also found the Scorpions, and have some Pelicans bringing them down."

"How about Albatrosses?" Sergeant Morris asked. "I remember seeing those on the equipment roster."

"No go. They were stored in the lower docking bay, and that's basically in the underbelly of the ship."

Sergeant Morris winced. "Pity. They would be useful as hell right now." But now, they would barely be useful as scrap. If anyone could get to them.

"You've already noticed the crates by now. They are filled with fuel and machine parts, so that's the good news. The bad news is that they are only filled with fuel and machine parts. For the ammo, food, specialized machines, etc, we are going to need to delve deeper into the PoA. The Covenant control most of the ship, so we are going to have to do some fighting."

"Finally, we want some of the 50 mm point defense cannons, so we will have some of the engineers take them of the hull."

"We got an engineer, what else do you need?"

* * *

**20 Meters aft of barricades, 0650 Hours**

Sierra squad was walking back from one of the barricades toward a stack of crates. They'd talked to the Marines, and they seemed to be waiting for something, but they hadn't said what.

That was, of course, a perfect opportunity to laze off.

Everyone sat down, except for Jonesy. He looked at some of the smaller crates, searching for something.

Their radio's crackled on, the universal band activated. "This is Sergeant Nicollo. We've reached the reactor, and it's intact, all systems green. Start the supply raid now."

Jonesy shook his head. "Thank God."

"Something the matter?" Da Vega asked. At the moment, she was in the mood for conversation, and this was where she could get it.

"No, something has gone right. You know the reactor they just mentioned?"

Da Vega shook her head.

"Well, that thing is huge. It's the kind of thing you'd expect to power a supercruiser, or something larger. If that thing was damaged, we'd have to take it off line, 'cause when it blows, it goes. We're talking about a crater the size of Britain."

Kanoff spoke up. He knew quite a bit about Navy ships, a relic from a childhood obsession.

"Wait, this is a Halcyon cruiser. It takes quite a bit to damage those, and the reactor is in the center. A planetary impact wouldn't set the reactor critical."

"You don't need to destroy the superstructure to set the reactor critical," Jonesy countered. "A crack in the casing, or a slow leak would be enough to do the job. Hell, if the Covenant were stupid and in a hurry, all they'd have to do is detonate a small antimatter charge near the reactors. They'd kill whatever ships they came over in, and anything distant, but that's the way they play."

He paused for a moment.

"Hell, if the Covenant were stupid and in a hurry, all they'd have to do is detonate a small antimatter charge near the reactors.

"And you would know?"

"Of course. While you jarheads were sleeping away your lives in those cyrotubes, I was awake for a month, helping the Navy Personnel repolarize the MAC magnets in Slipspace." Jonesy grinned. He was a hardware junkie to the core. "That thing is wicked. The electromagnets have energy sumps connected directly to them in a cross-loop connection, feeding power back into the magnets. The MAC can fire three times in succession, like one of those BR-40's on a semi-automatic setting! And the reactor is built to supply it, with a triple-Tokomak laser cooled assembly..."

Everyone's eyes began to glaze over.

One of the Marines from the Commander's table ran up to Sierra Squad.

"You're Private Jonesy?"

Jonesy stopped in mid-sermon. "Yes."

"You've been reassigned. Report outside to Lima Two Oh Five."

"What?"

"You're working on the Point-Defense Cannons. I suggest you hurry."

Jonesy looked at the rest of the marines, said a quick goodbye, and walked outside.

Five minutes later, Sierra squad was still loitering near the crates, trying to look busy with varying amounts of success. Someone had found a carton of cigarettes in an opened crate, so they were enjoying that small comfort that allowed them to forget that they were stranded on an alien world occupied by the Covenant and at a random point in UNSC space. As Da Vega had said, all they needed right now was a case of beer and a large screen TV with a Gravball tournament on. And as Kanoff had replied, good luck with that.

Sergeant Morris walked up and helped himself to the cigarettes.

"Alright ladies and germs, we have a new assignment… Where's Jonesy?"

Kanoff volunteered the information. "He was repossessed by the guys from Alpha. They have him helping with those point-defense cannons."

Sergeant Morris exhaled a large cloud of smoke. Jonesy would be handy in opening jammed doors and stuff, but he had been told that most of the PoA's systems were still online, and they shouldn't encounter too much difficulty.

"Alright, we have several different objectives. Mostly, we're going to be finding and securing supplies throughout the ship. This includes ammo, food, and machinery. I know that's pretty general, so we are just going to be visiting certain rooms in the ship."

One of the twins raised her hand. "If we're getting vehicles and stuff from the Autumn, why did we fight for the beacon tower?"

Morris exhaled a cloud of smoke. It was a good question. "We were getting vehicles and turrets from the beacon tower. Here, we're getting ammo and supplies. Two very different things, if you think about them."

The other twin spoke up. "Sir, why hasn't Alpha done this themselves? They've been here longer."

Morris frowned. If he didn't know better, he'd suspect her of wanting to slack around. His fears were allayed when Liz broke out into a grin.

"The guys from Alpha have been busy fighting for the ship and gathering vehicles. We need to haul our own weight here. Otherwise, in fifty years when you have one of your great grandkids sitting on your lap, and he asks you what you did on the Pillar of Autumn, you won't have to cough, shift him to the other leg, and say you sat on your arse smoking cancer sticks. Am I clear?"

Nobody spoke up. Montag thought about pointing out that Morris had just ripped that phrase off of Patton, but decided against it.

"Good. Now that brings me to our other objective. As you saw from the bodies outside, the Covenant are here, and in fact occupy most of the ship. While we are finding the supplies we covet so much, we'll also be fighting the Covenant in close quarters. Once we find the supplies, we will have to hold off the Covenant until others show up with forklifts and Warthogs via the service corridors."

"Can't be too hard."  
"We'll see, Private."

* * *

**Rear Elevator Room, Deck D, 0702 Hours  
**

The Marines slowly filed into the room, on the lookout for Covenant forces. They had mostly been pushed out of the rear half of the lower two decks, but there were also reports of lone Lances trying to penetrate human controlled space.

The room however, was empty of Covenant forces. There were quite a few crates and three squashed Grunts that were beginning to stink up the place. The whole room looked as if a giant had picked it up and shook it. The Crates were everywhere, in every position.

Morris walked to the control panel near the center of the room. The elevator was gone, on another floor, and there was a hole in the center of the room where it should be.

Morris studied the controls for a second, then pressed a button.

"Good day," a female voice said from the control panel. "Please wait for a moment. The elevator will arrive shortly."

Nothing happened for a few seconds, then, accompanied by a horrendous screeching sound, the elevator descended from the upper decks. It zoomed past Deck D, and crashed somewhere between Deck D and Deck E.

"Apologies." The semale voice continued. "The Elevator is temporarily out of service. We're sorry for the inconvenience."

Morris squinted at the logo on the control panel. Sure enough, it said "Sirius Cybernetics Corporation."

"Alright, we're going around."

Sergeant Morris motioned for everyone to gather at one of the doors, and they trotted down the hallway that led to the bow of the ship.

They ran for about one hundred meters before Da Vega caught up with Sergeant Morris.  
"Sir, I hate to question a superior officer, but do you know where we're going?"

"Yes, there's a Maintenance Access Way up ahead. We'll use that to get to the upper levels."

The Maintenance Access Way turned out to be only a few meters ahead, hidden behind a rack of ammo. Sergeant Morris waved his hand over the motion sensor by the door. Nothing happened.

Da Vega stepped up.

"Try this sir." She waved her hand over the door. "Open sesame."

Nothing happened.

Kanoff pulled out a plasma grenade and stuck it into a rent in the door.

"Fire in the hole." He said as he primed the grenade.

Everyone ducked behind whatever they could find. A few seconds later, there was a bang, and everyone came out.

The door was melted and twisted away from where the grenade had been. The hole was large enough for the Marines to duck through.

Private Kanoff took point, and everyone ran down the dark corridors. Morris made them pause every now and then to check a map he had with them, and twice they had to double back. Finally, they found what they were looking for.

It was a room with a single ladder that led to the other decks. The lights were off, and the only illumination came from the Marines flashlights.

"Now what sir?" Private June asked.

"You wait while I check the map. We're running behind schedule."

Montag took advantage of the delay, cycling through the filters in his HMD. He passed through NV, and looked up at the ladder. It went three more decks, and was pretty long, since each deck took up about fifteen meters. He couldn't see anything irregular, so he switched to Motion Sensitive, and then Infrared. The room showed up with walls of blue, pipes and conduits of green, and blobs of red and yellow, where the Marines were standing.

Sergeant Morris motioned for the Marines to gather around him. Pointing at the map, he showed them where they were.

"We are here, in this Maintenance room. We are going to climb up to the next level and walk down this access way here until we reach a hallway. From then on, it's just a few twists and turns until we reach Armory 2-C."

Everyone nodded. Of course, if the elevator and the broken Maintenance Access Way door was any indication, there would probably be a few detours. And they still hadn't run into the Covenant yet. Nobody knew if that was a good sign or a bad one.

Morris picked a Marine at random. "Montag, you go up first."

Montag slung the Rifle across his back, and started climbing. Fifteen meters was quite a ways to go. The Marines started climbing after him, and soon the room was filled with the sound of boots on metal and muttered curses.

About halfway up, a bright light was thrown out of the upper level. Montag saw a bright red (it looked that way in infrared) plasma grenade drop from above. It hit a rung above Montag and bounced off, continuing its fall and exploding below the Marines.

Montag pulled out a Fragmentation grenade, primed it, and threw it at the upper level. A Grunt jumped off the upper level and fell to the lower levels, squealing all the way. The grenade exploded, and bits of Grunt fell from Deck C, accompanied by the angry cry of an Elite.

Montag pulled the Handgun out of its holster and started firing, And some other Marines pulled out their sidearms. Da Vega managed to fire her assault rifle with both hands and hold onto the ladder at the same time.. The deck above them was diamond pattern grill, so the bullets encountered little resistance on their way to the Elite. Montag kept firing the Handgun until it clicked, and the slide stayed back. Empty.

Dark blue blood, bright red on Montag's HMD, started dripping down from the deck, and the Elite was silent.

Below him, June spoke up. "I think its dead."

"We're dawgone lucky that they weren't smart enough to simply shoot at us. We would have been cut to pieces." Kanoff answered.

"Wish they were all that stupid," One of the other Marines said.

"What would be the fun in that?"

Montag climbed even faster, and reached deck C quickly. The diamond grill was blood splattered, bent and glowing red (Again, on Montag's HMD) where the grenade had gone off.

Looking around, Montag saw three Grunt corpses, thrown against the bulkhead by the overpressure. A lone Elite lay on the deck, its head masticated by several bullets that had gone through its chin, or whatever the anatomical equivalent was.

Montag checked his backpack, and found he was to one last M6D magazine, half full from fighting on the PoA. After this, he was down to the Knife and the Rifle. The Rifle was not nearly as good in CQB, and the Knife... only desperate men resorted to that.

Montag looked for the Elite's plasma rifle. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be found, and had probably either fallen down after the grenade went off, or had been thrown into a dark corner.

The Marines started filing out of the room, with Montag last to leave.

* * *

**Outside of Armory 3-C, 0718 Hours**

In front of the main door to Armory 3-C, three Jackals and five Grunts were stationed on guard duty. The Jackals and Grunts stuck together in their own little groups, and stayed away from each other. Earlier this day, two Grunts had been killed when a stack of crates mysteriously tipped over on them. Later, a Jackal apparently killed itself... with a full clip of needles. Escalation had been prevented by one of the commanding Elites, who promised to severely punish anyone suspected of the crimes. The suspects would be handed over to the Hunters.

Nevertheless, the Grunts and the Jackals were staying at arms length, suspicious of each other. The Jackals claimed that the dead Grunts had been fooling around when the crates fell on them. The Grunts claimed that the dead Jackal had committed suicide. So now they stayed in their own little groups, confident that the other species would be the first to break the peace.

They were wrong, of course. A fragmentation grenade flew out of the shadows in the hallway and landed right between the two groups. Both groups stared at the grenade, knowing that there wasn't enough time to escape, to shelter themselves from the blast. One of the quicker Grunts, however, took the opportunity to flash an obscene gesture at the Jackals.

BOOM! The shrapnel from the grenade tore through armor and flesh, spraying blood patterns over the walls curiously reminiscent of Jackson Pollock. The overpressure picked up the bodies and threw them against the walls with bone-crunching force.

Marines ran out of the shadows and shot any suspected survivors. Then they started securing both ends of the hallway, while Morris tried to open the door. He immediately noticed that the door wasn't going to open easily. When the Pillar of Autumn had been boarded, there had been a firefight here. The door had automatically locked down, and several plasma bolts had found their way to the terminal by the door.

"Everyone," he whispered. "We're going to be here for a while. Find something to take cover behind while I open this door. Shoot anything that comes down this hallway.

The Marines started setting up a perimeter in the immediate area of the doorway, and Morris took out a laptop. The whole ship had a wireless network, and Morris could use it to override the door's lock. All he had to do was log onto the network, access the main security systems, specify the doors location, and mess around with the settings until the door opened. Hopefully it would take less time than going around.

* * *

**Hallway, 0720 Hours**

Kanoff and Da Vega had dragged a portable barricade back to the armory door, and both were crouched inside. With their ammo pooled, they had two clips apiece, plus a plasma pistol and grenades. Their after a few minutes, however, their attention turned away from sentry duty.

"You know, when I joined the Marines, I never expected to end up like this." Kanoff said, opening up the conversation.

"What, you mean abandoned on an alien artifact beyond human understanding and with no hope of getting back home?" Da Vega asked in mock surprise. "Didn't you see the movies? This happens all the time."

"Yeah. You're talking to the guy who believed the posters, not the movies. You know, 'Be all you can be,' or 'Uncle Nathan wants YOU to serve in the Marines'. I figured I would serve a term, save a few planets, and go back home as a hero."

"That can't be the whole reason why you signed up. Nobody, and I mean nobody, pays attention to those things anymore. Our local recruiting office even gave up on posting them. "

"Sounds like you came from a tough town." Kanoff had watched her earlier. She fought like some of the gangsters he had seen in the movies.

"Tough? Our city was so tough, the 'Meals on Wheels' were delivered in APCs. Our city was so tough, our police department outsourced to Blackwater."

"Lots of gangs?"

Da Vega's smile faded. "Gang fights every night. All the major gangs were selling drugs and using weapons supplied by the URF."

After an uncomfortable silence, Kanoff changed the subject. "Well, I was just a farm boy from an inner-colony world, and I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. If I signed up for the Marines, I would get a regular salary and another two years to decide on a career." Kanoff shifted uncomfortably. A year ago, the decision had been pretty easy. Not anymore.

"Sounds like it was a bargain."

"Maybe, but my brother was probably smarter. He's working as a technician on one of those orbital hydroponics plants, earning a steady salary and a decent bed inside each night. He even gets a fancy title when he's just a farmer." Jealousy was evident in Kanoff's voice. He was starting to fidget with his shotgun.

Da Vega smiled knowingly. "Maybe, but you know what? I bet your brother is bored out of his mind."

Kanoff and Da Vega laughed together. Then Kanoff put his hand on her shoulder and gazed into her eyes.  
"Thanks. I needed that."

Together, they stared at each other, alone with each other in their own world, far away from Halo.

"Hey!" Another Marine yelled, cruelly jerking them back to reality. "Where the Hell did Montag go?"

* * *

**Sub-Deck C-1, Maintenance storage C-23, 0720 Hours  
**

Footsteps echoed throughout the dark corridor, and shadows danced in the faint blue light. A Covenant Lance, one Sangheili and five Unggoy strong, slowly walked through the hallway, their weapons at the ready. The hallway was dark as night, and barely enough illumination was present to navigate the dark corridors.

Kinre 'Rutenelee was reflecting on their mission. The Zealot in charge had organized an unorthodox strategy to kill the invaders. When a direct assault had failed, he ordered his Lances to sneak into enemy held territory, engage them individually, and draw them back into the areas that the Covenant controlled. It was a strange tactic, and less honorable than a direct assault, but had actually seen some limited success.

And so here Kinre 'Rutenelee was, traipsing through the back corridors, lost but unwilling to admit it, and hoping to run into a group of Humans.

He suddenly paused. A peculiar sound, not the sound of footsteps or Unggoys breathmasks. It was a strange, organic gurgling. He turned around to face the Unggoys.

There it was again, coming from a different direction. Kinre 'Rutenelee cursed himself, for he had not had the foresight to bring a light source. He fired his plasma rifle at the ceiling. In the resulting flash, he saw two of the Unngoy on the floor with their breathing masks lying beside them, obviously cut off.

Blazes! A Human had snuck up upon them in the dark, and had already killed two of the Unngoy. Kinre Rutenelee barked, ordering the remaining Unngoy to rally around him.

One of the Unngoy fell, a huge gash appearing in its head.

Kinre Rutenelee fired his plasma rifle in an arc, sweeping the area where the Human must be. The Unngoy had the presence of mind to fire in the same direction, and the whole area was lit up, shadows and light clashing in rapid, strobe-like effects.

There! Half hidden behind a crate was the Human. He altered his angle of fire slightly, and the plasma bolts tracked directly onto the Humans chest, staining his armor a bright white.

* * *

Montag nearly screamed in pain as the white hot lances of plasma burned into his armor. He armed a frag grenade already in his hand and threw it. He rolled behind the crate and tore at his breastplate. It unlatched from his fatigues and fell off, white rippled with black. It was hot, burning his hands even though he wasn't touching it.

The frag grenade went off on the other side of the crate, and the overpressure cooked off plasma grenades dropped by the Grunts. The Covenant ceased to exist, and the crate smashed against Montag, sending him sliding for three meters.

Montag continued to lie there. His body was wracked with pain, his chest burning. Saliva mixed with blood dribbled from his mouth. His left arm was dislocated again.

"_Why the Hell am I doing this_?" part of him asked, a part long dormant. Montag was surprised that he was even asking himself this.

Why the Hell not?

"_Does this feel good? What am I trying to do, kill myself_?" that persistent voice asked.

Feel good? Hell, Montag felt alive. The burning anger in his heart was cooling down, leaving a… pleasant feeling.

"_But am I satisfied_?"

Montag was forced to admit that he wasn't. There was a void, a deep hunger that no amount of killing could ever sate.

Not that he didn't intend to keep trying.

Shrugging aside the irritating voice, Montag grabbed his left shoulder with his right hand. He slowly, tenderly started rubbing it, and then rotating it. With a jerking motion and a cracking sound, Montag slipped it back into the socket.

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a medical kit. He opened it and looked for a specific medicine. Montag selected a particular needle. It was a general muscle/tendon/ligament growth aid, and would help the shoulder to heal to a reasonable degree within hours. Within a minute, his shoulder muscles and tendons would tighten up to the point where he would not be able to move it.

He carefully looked for an artery that lead into his shoulder and jabbed it in. If he selected a vein, the medication would travel to his heart, and prevent it from beating.

Unfortunately, it didn't do anything for the pain.

Montag pulled out another needle labeled PPM and stuck it in his shoulder.

Montag started to get up. He groped around for his breastplate, found it, and pulled out a canteen. Slowly, he poured water on it. The water boiled and rose in a cloud of steam, cooling off the armor. It was still hot, but bearably so. He put it on and reconnected it to the power supply in the back plate, and it slowly turned black.

Montag's armor was similar to the standard CQB Marine armor. The only difference was, instead of being colored an Army green, the armor itself was translucent. Underneath the ballistic/insulating armor plates was a thin polymer, divided into millions of cells too small to see. In each cell were dozens of microscopic chips suspended in a heat tolerant liquid.

Each chip was black on one side, white on the other. The black side held a negative charge, while the white side held a positive charge. When the bottom of a cell in the polymer was exposed to a negative current, the white side of the chips would orient downward towards the current, making the cell appear black from the outside, and visa versa. This technology was known as E-ink, and had been developed and widely used for more than 500 years.

With millions of cells acting together, Montag's armor could turn black, white, or a theoretical 4096 shades of gray. It wasn't as good as the active camouflage that the Elites had, but was very effective in dark conditions, or from over 100 meters away. And it all operated on a conventional battery pack that Marines were issued.

The downside was that the cells, or pixels, tended to get stuck for a while after exposure to plasma. If you got hit, you were walking around with a big white spot for several minutes. Might as well as wear a target that says 'shoot me'.

Next, Montag took out the duct tape and started strapping his left arm to his side. If he could keep from moving his left arm for a couple of hours, he would regain full mobility with a minimum of pain. At least, that's what the medic said last time this happened.

Pain wracking his body, Montag stood up and leaned against a barrel of cleaning fluid. He would rest here for a minute, and then continue on...

* * *

_The Warthog slid backward for the umpteenth time before regaining traction and lurching back up the hill. Inside, the occupants were bounced back and forth, and Montag's head collided with the steering wheel yet again. _

_Wrenching the steering wheel left and right to maintain grip on the steep, gravelly incline, Montag kept an ear open towards the ranking officer in the passenger's seat. Lieutenant Beatty Demarest was on the radio, shouting alternatively at the other vehicles in the platoon and at CnC back at the base. Between Montag and Demarest was a music player blasting away with an instrumental called "One of These Days". _

_Montag was no expert in music, but the guitar rifts reminded him of those moments in combat, when artillery and infantry weapons were firing everywhere, so fast and so loud everything faded into the background. It was like a wet towel was wrapped around your head, your senses were so dulled..._

_The Warthog jerked sharply to the right, and Demarest pounded on the dashboard with his fist._

_"DOGGONNIT! Keep your mind on what your doing!"_

_Montag took a quick glance behind his shoulder. The rest of the platoon was having as much trouble as he was. The Warthog variants and Cougars were slipping and sliding, but the Scorpions and Rhino's were faring better. They should have been dropped onto the top of the hill with Pelicans, but there had been none to spare._

_As the song on the player faded out, the ground began to level off, and the Warthog reached the crest of the hill. Three miles distant, Montag could see the distant Covenant encampment. The point was to take the hill and two others, and then bombard the encampment with the Rhino artillery. Unfortunately, the other two platoons hadn't taken the other hills yet, and wouldn't for some while._

_Not enough firepower to destroy the base. And they were sitting ducks up here._

_Beatty was still talking on the radio, but Montag heard the person on the other side say something._

_"Kernkraftrakete ancommt!"_

_Montag jerked around and looked at Demarest. Did he just hear..._

_The Lieutenant put down the headset and banged on the steering wheel._

_"Stop the Hog," he said. Montag complied, although his instinct was to jump out and find cover._

_"Watch this."_

_As Montag looked at the base, a bright light blinded him. The windshield polarized to compensate, but Montag was only seeing dots. A roaring sound hit the Warthog, and then the blast wave arrived. Rocks pinged off the armor, and the overpressure rocked the Warthog back and forth._

_As Montag's vision slowly recovered, he gingerly touched his face. It was burned, leathery, felt like a mask. He was still seeing dots, but he could make out a mushroom cloud in the distance, an evil djinn looming over the wasteland of it's creation, backlit with reds, browns and oranges worthy of Dante. _

_Demarest pulled out a cigarette and touched the tip to the window. After a second, the tip glowed red, and Demarest began smoking it._

_"Beautiful, isn't it?" _

_Montag could agree with that statement. The scene was rather striking._

_"'I am become Death, destroyer of worlds'. Oppenheimer said that, one of the guys who invented the bomb. He knew what he was talking about, Montag."_

_The mushroom could continued to twist and turn, fed by the nuclear fire sweeping across the remains of the Covenant base._

_"Mankind's ultimate weapon. Remember the first time we used it, Montag?"_

_Montag nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Hiroshima. 1945." _

_As the mushroom cloud started to fade out, Demarest took out his shotgun and began loading it. It was a custom job, double barreled, and could be reconfigured either as a pump action or an automatic. It could fire the standard UNSC ammunition, but like all soldiers who carried their own weapons, Beatty had a stash of custom ammunition for it. Montag was convinced that the double-barrel feature, as well as the use of the M-247 SAW, was evidence of possible steroid use.  
_

_"Right. The imperialist Japs swore on their graves that they would die before surrendering. Nuke number one, and their barbaric war machine grinds to a halt. Nuke number two, and they're pacifists for the next two hundred years. Same thing with India, same thing with South Africa, same thing with Iran. It's a simple fact of humanity: unleash power like that, blow a few hundred thousand civvies to Kingdom Come, and suddenly everyone's jumping on the peace bandwagon."  
_

_He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his disgust evident. _

_"Not the Covenant," Beatty continued, his voice suddenly turning harsher. "No, we could keep nuking them until Judgment Day, and they'll keep on coming. Only one thing you can do with animals like that; keep fighting. Fight 'em to the last man. Push them all the way back to the hell-hole they evolved from, and then break them. Round up every last one of them, the males, females, and cubs; the old and infirm. Herd every last xeno into concentration camps, then turn up the showers and fire the ovens. Burn every last one of them, and when you're done, get down on your hands and knees and thank whatever God you worship that they are all burning in Hell, and you're not. _

_With a violent jerk, Beatty pumped the shotgun, driving his point home._

_Montag turned to face the Lieutenant. "Sir, with all due respect, you're starting to monologue."_

_Beatty shook his head. "Maybe I am."_

_He twisted in his seat to look behind the Warthog. Behind them, the rest of the platoon were sitting in their vehicles, engines idling, waiting for orders._

_"Right," Beatty said, as Montag started the 'Hog back up. "On to the next target. Monday, we burn Mike. Wednesday, Whiskey. Friday, Foxtrot."

* * *

_

**Sub-Deck C-1, Maintenance storage C-23, 0729 Hours  
**

Slowly, Montag opened his eyes._  
_

His HMD was off, but Montag saw something. A shadow moving in the darkness.

Montag whipped the Handgun out of its holster, aimed and fired.

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

BOOM!

CLICK! The slide shot back; the gun was empty. The Shadow had yet to move.

The corridor was silent for a moment, and then Montag called out. "Is there somebody there?"

The Shadow paused for a second, and spoke.

"Somebody," it said, and then it laughed hoarsely.

Montag shook his head and walked down the hallway to the Armory.

* * *

**Armory 3-C, 0730 Hours  
**

Morris was at the door, still fiddling with his laptop. He had opened the default settings for the door security. It was like fiddling with the display properties for the desktop on a computer. The problem was finding the right settings.

There was a tab at the bottom of the screen that said "Emergency default: On." Morris was about to click that when the door slid open.

There was Montag. Evidently, he had gone around.

Morris unplugged his laptop and got up.

"Thank you." He said, and then got a good look at Montag. "What the Hell happened to you?"

Montag just shook his head.

As the Marines started to enter the Armory, Morris pulled out a radio and pressed the 'talk' button.

"This is Sergeant Morris. Sierra-B has secured Armory 3-C, and is awaiting the Warthogs."

The radio squawked. Six hundred years of development, and static was still a feature, though not a problem. "Sergeant Morris, this is Control. Your request has been acknowledged. Trailers are en-route. ETA 10 minutes."

"Sierra-B out." Morris put the radio away. A lot could happen in ten minutes.

* * *

**Armory, 0735 Hours**

The Marines, with the exception of two stuck with guard duty outside, began loading the ammo the cardboard boxes they came in, and stacking them where they could easily be loaded into trailers. They kept a few clips for themselves, replenishing their supply of shells, bullets, and grenades.

Montag walked down a row of shelves and crates, reading the labels. Here were AP drums, for LRV Warthogs. There was a row of crates, each one stacked with rocket packets for the Jackhammers. Above that was a shelf filled with boxes of shotgun rounds. Montag kept walking. Here were several crates marked AIE-486H HMG and another crate labeled "M7057 Defoliant Projector."

Next was the rack of ammunition. Montag unrolled his backpack on a table, and began loading the supplies he needed. Ten clips of M6 ammunition, four boxes of four Sniper Rifle magazines, and some C-rations. It was slow going, not being able to use his left arm.

Da Vega walked over for some AR magazines, and looked at Montag's backpack.

She whistled through her teeth, and looked at Montag. "I guess you must have been in the Boy Scouts."

Montag looked at her with a confused expression.

Da Vega gestured at the backpack. "You've got everything in there, from ammo to flashlights to extra bootlaces."

"What's that got to do with the Boy Scouts?"

"'Always be prepared?' Haven't you heard that before?"

Montag, as a matter of fact, had heard that motto. Back in Sniper Training. "I've never heard of the Boy Scouts."

Da Vega shook her head. "Wherever you grew up must have been some sad, backwater little planet…"

Montag was about to reply when a bright blue explosion enveloped the door.

* * *

**AN: Alright, go ahead. Hate me. I haven't updated in a month. I could blame a number of factors, but it was mostly my laziness, combined with the difficulty I had in writing Montag's flashback. I would like to thank a few fans who have written to me recently, asking when this would be put out. (Nice to know I have my own Operation CWAL) **

**I can't guarantee fast chapters (Although they will be faster than one month), but I will promise you this: I will never give up on this story. I will continue to write, braving rain and hail, sleet and snow, writers block and Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. I will fight through hard drive crashes, virus attacks, and even the dreaded dial-up internet connection, in order to bring this story to you, my loyal readers.**

**And about Reading and Reviewing: One of my earlier reviewers, 'Micheal' wrote in and told me about the problems involved with .50 caliber handguns. He suggested that Montag be given, and I quote, a "**_custom made combat shotgun shooting(explosive penetrator)slugs( but could shoot unc standard ammo in a pinch!) But that might just be "Too cool"_**"  
Montag may not be one for shotguns, but such a shotgun seemed perfect for L****i****eutenant Beatty Demarest.**

**And yes, since you guys are wondering, Demarest has gone up a few ranks. I made the change for story reasons, and the last few chapters will be seeing a revamp to correct that, as well as several other mistakes.**

**Thank you, and good night. **


	14. Pyromania

_**Keep an eye on Montag. He might act like a coward at times, but occasionally he'll do something so completely off the wall that you won't believe it. He's a weird one.**_

_**Sergeant Joseph T. Barnes  
**_

* * *

**0737 Hours, 19th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Armory 3-C, UNSC derelict cruiser (Pillar of Autumn)  
Unidentified Artifact**

Privates Kanoff and June had been closest to the door. A split second before, the sound of conflict had come. The two Marines outside were firing their rifles in exchange for plasma bolts. Before anyone could react, one of the Marines shrieked the scream of the damned, and the other had dove through the door. He only made it halfway before the plasma grenade stuck to the other Marine exploded. The overpressure threw the surviving Marine against the doorjamb, his fatigues flash-burning and his spine cracking.

Kanoff and June immediately grabbed the Marine's hands and attempted to pull him to safety. A shrieking klaxon went off, and the door engaged in an emergency lockdown.

A Blue Elite ran out of the darkness and threw itself in the doorway. It forced the doors to a stop, and then began to force them apart, despite the 400 kilograms of hydraulic pressure closing the doors.

Kanoff and June looked up at the monstrous Elite. The Marines in the Armory were exchanging fire with the Covenant outside. However, both sides were hitting the Elite, draining its shields.

The Elite stared down at Kanoff and June. Alien it may have been, but spreading your jaws and snarling was a universal message. Bracing one of the doors with a hoof, it reached down with it's free hand and pulled out a plasma rifle.

Kanoff, thinking quickly, grabbed his shotgun and stood up. Meeting little resistance from the Elite's weakened shields; he rammed the shotgun in the Elites mouth.

"EAT THIS!" he shouted as he pulled the trigger.

The Elite's head literally exploded, and the corpse fell down into the doorway, still blocking the doors. June and Kanoff dragged the Marine out of the way, and plasma bolts continued to pour into the room.

By then, the Marines had ducked behind whatever cover was available and returned fire. There was nowhere to run, no way to close the door, and only a matter of time until a stray plasma bolt punched through a crate of ammo and cooked off the contents.

* * *

**Armory 3-C, small arms section, 0737 Hours**

When the explosion went off, Montag and Da Vega looked over at the door in time to see an Elite block the doors from closing. Da Vega pulled out her assault rifle and fired in the general direction of the Elite's chest.

Montag pulled the Handgun out of its holster and dropped to one knee. Holding the Handgun in his right hand, he started firing at the Elite's chest. Aiming after each shot took longer, and lightning bolts of pain shot down his arm.

He gritted his teeth so hard it hurt. Only an idiot, or one of the Hollywood types (but then again, he repeated himself) fired a large-caliber handgun one-handed. For accuracy and pain-free shooting, one had to use both hands.

The Marines were forced to avert their fire when Kanoff stood up and shot the Elite in the head. The Elite fell, its body leaving the door braced with two-thirds of a meter of gap, enough for the Covenant outside to shoot through. After Kanoff and June were out of immediate danger, Da Vega crouched behind a rack of shotguns and reloaded her assault rifle. As she slammed the clip home, she realized that Montag wasn't standing next to her anymore.

* * *

**Armory 3-C, heavy ordinance section, 0737 Hours**

Montag ran to the 'heavy ordinance' section, with the crates of rockets and drums of Warthog ammo. Grabbing the crate labeled _M7057 Defoliant Projector_, he shoved it over, pulled out the Knife, and began to hack at the clips that held it closed. The two halves of the crate fell apart, exposing the foam packaging material and the flamethrower.

He then slashed at the duct tape holding his left arm to his side. This was going to hurt.

Before starting out, he grabbed an oxygen mask from a nearby port labeled 'In Case of Emergency', said emergency intended to be anything short of a critical depressurization of the room. The mask barely fit under his helmet, with the HMD and all, but it would have to make do for the next five minutes.

With the seal still hardening around his face, Montag picked the defoliator up by its front handle and loaded it with an ammo canister. Clipping two more canisters to his belt, he hefted it to test its weight; just as heavy as he remembered. His left shoulder began to ache.

* * *

**Armory 3-C, small arms section, 0737 Hours**

Da Vega was busy laying down a suppressing fire, but she noticed something moving out of the corner of her eye. She looked to her left and saw Montag running towards the doorway, encumbered by whatever he was carrying.

Then she saw _exactly _what he was carrying.

_"Hell no,"_ she thought._ "Even he's not that crazy."_  
She watched as he threw a flare out the door, and then leaped through.

_"Yep. He is."_

* * *

**Armory 3-C, starboard entrance, 0737 Hours**

Montag ran through the armory to the doorway. He kept close to the walls in an effort to avoid the plasma bolts, and to remain unseen. Five meters away from the door, he let go of the forward handle and threw a plasma grenade he had grabbed earlier. A loud thump, a blinding light that seared his eyelids, and it was over.

He leaped over the Elite's body and into the hallway. In the darkness, with illumination coming only from the red glow of the deck and the Covenant energy weapons, Montag switched on his Infra-red. Most of the Covenant were ten meters to his left, near a series of cross-bracing. To his right were four Grunts and an Elite. They seemed to still be stunned, still recovering their dark-vision. Good.

Turning to his right, Montag pulled the trigger and sprayed the Pyrosene in a semi-circle, consuming the squad to his right in a deluge of fire. With a roar, the flames blossomed and lit up the hallway, catching Montag in a wall of heat. He closed his left eye, maneuvering by the infra-red image on his HMD.

Montag turned towards the rest of the Covenant, most of whom were still blind. The few that could see were transfixed at the vision of a grim specter, whose armor had turned a gleaming white, backlit by a raging inferno. A bone-white angel of death, with a predatory gleam reflecting off the eyepiece covering his right eye.

Montag took a second to hoist the flamethrower, getting a better view of the enemy.

_Xenos die pretty quick once you put the fire to 'em. We ought 'a burn 'em all. Low-life bastards. Burn all those low-life xeno foxtrots_.

_Burn 'em to ashes, and then burn the ashes._

Montag primed the trigger, enjoying the feeling of the electric pump winding up, like the turbine of some exotic sports car revving up, promising to propel him to euphoric speeds. When he pulled the trigger, it was like unleashing the brakes, peeling out from the red light with a smile plastered across his face. With the growl of a dragon, a torrent of fire stormed out of the nozzle and sought out the Covenant.

The liquid fire was everywhere. It twisted and swirled, surrounding and embracing the Covenant with its fiery embrace. The droplets of pyrosene rapidly deoxigenated the air and stripped the paint off the floor and the walls.

Montag kept the trigger pressed, despite the warnings in the instruction manual to fire in bursts.

The Methane rebreathers on the Grunts exploded, popping like a series of firecrackers. The methane, despite the failsafe gas, mixed with the oxygen in the air and added to the fire

Montag kept firing. In a perverse way, it was beautiful to see things blackened, to see things _changed_. To see them burn.

With a screeching, the fire-suppressant systems on the PoA came on. Jets of carbon dioxide sprayed down from the ceiling, smothering the flames.

_No._

Montag jerked the flamethrower up, coating the ceiling with a layer of sticky Pyrosene. The nozzles were never intended to deal with direct flame, and definitely not with the Pyrosene. The Pyrosene clogged and warped the nozzles, reducing but not the jets of CO2.

The Flamethrower sputtered and died. Montag removed the ammo canister and threw it behind a structural support, five meters away. The heat burst the canister ignited the remaining vapors, and it exploded like a grenade.

Montag slapped a new one in and kept on spraying. He aimed the jet of fire back and forth like a fireman fighting a great conflagration with a waterhose. Except this fireman was feeding the blaze with the food it hungered for: Fuel, flesh, and hatred. Unrelenting hatred. But damn, he'd forgotten how good this felt.

The Jackals hid behind their shields, embers dancing around them like brilliant orange butterflies. Only a few could withstand the high temperature, and most panicked, surrendering themselves to the fury of the fire. The few that stood strong were helpless as the Pyrosene built up on their shields. The shields soon failed, and a wall of blazing Pyrosene collapsed on them like a blanket.

Montag was dripping with sweat, and the stubble on his face had been singed off. The room had to be at fifty degrees centigrade. He didn't notice this however. Hatred is a jealous mistress, and when she has your full attention, nothing else can gain it. He was riding on a high, one that was better than any that could be gained from drugs. He was the conductor, the master of the symphony of blazes and burnings.

The Elites were dying, the last to go. The heat and the chemical reactions taking place directly on their armor had quickly depleted their shields. Now most of them were writhing on the ground, their skin too far gone to feel pain, but the shock was overwhelming. One minute, they were burning in Pyrosene and hatred. The next minute, they were burning in Hell.

One Elite, its Red armor complimenting the inferno around it, staggered forward. It was dead or dying, it didn't matter which. Its body, or its corpse, sank to its knees three meters from Montag.

Montag angled the flamethrower so that it was spraying directly at the Elite, the torrent of flame rushing around its head. The helmet blew off, and the skinsuit under it caught fire. The skin and flesh quickly cooked and fell off like meat falls off a tender steak. The skin and muscles dripped on the floor, oozing burning grease. All that was left of the head was a charred, brittle skull barely visible beneath the blanket of liquid pain.

Montag was torn from his reverie when the flamethrower was torn out of his grip. He felt hands on his arms, yanking him backwards. Distantly, he heard shouting; his name, other names. He was struggling violently, but something heavy struck him on the head.

Distantly, he felt himself being dragged away, though it was hard to tell through the storm of endorphins and adrenaline pumping through his brain.

He was back in the Armory. Morris's face was in front of his.

_"What the frickin' Hell did you think you were doing?"_

As the adrenaline high receded, the room slowly came into focus.

The Elite had been dragged out of the door, and the door had clamped shut. The medic, Dirkens, had patched up two Marines, and was approaching with a medical kit.

And then there was his body. His face felt gritty, oily; and he smelled like diesel. Or Pyrosene. Would that explain why his shoulder felt like it was on fire?

* * *

**Armory 3-C, 0741 Hours**

Dirkens was making his way towards Lance Corporal Montag and Sergeant Morris when Montag suddenly grabbed his shoulder and started rolling around on the ground, shouting out expletives. Some of them were in English. Most were not. He sprinted toward the fallen Marine, already opening his medical kit.  
"Get the Hell down here and hold him down!" he shouted at Morris, who was just standing there in disbelief. Was this Marine really worth it?

After pinning Montag's arms with his knees, Dirkens pulled out a device looked like a cross between a flashlight and a spray gun. It was the tranquilizer of the twenty-sixth century, one that would use ultrasonics to propel tiny amounts of medicine below the dermal layer. Quick, easy to use, worked with a wide range of medicines and a few hallucinogens, and you didn't break needles off in a troublesome patient.

The tranq was pressed against Montag's carteroid artery and fired. Two microliters of sedative were propelled into Montag's blood, and were diffusing throughout the brain in a second. Montag went limp a few seconds later, not able to move his limbs.

Dirkens looked back at Morris. Morris was holding Montag's legs down, and wheezing like he had run the six-minute mile.

"What's wrong with him?"

Morris shrugged his shoulders. "Sadism? Pyromania?"

"_Shoulder…_"

Dirkens leaned closer to Montag. "What was that?"

"_My shoulder was hit…_" Montag whispered. The sedative was slurring his speech, making him sound like he had a few strong ones at the bar.

"What, with plasma?" Dirkens asked as he removed the torso armor and unzipped the fatigues. Beneath that were a white shirt and an extremely swollen shoulder. But it hadn't been hit with a plasma bolt. No burn, and the clothing wasn't vaporized.

However, the joint looked wrong, as if it was halfway out of the socket. Dirkens pressed the joint, getting feeble resistance from Montag. Not only was the socket halfway out of the joint, but the muscles and tendons were tight too.

"What did you do?"

"_Dislocated shoulder und tightened it back up… fifteen minutes ago._"

Dirkens paused. This Marine had been stupid enough to pick up something heavy with his left arm fifteen minutes after injecting the 'stiffer' into it?

"Alright, Montag. I'm going to tape you up." Dirkens told Montag as he pulled out some supplies. "And you won't be using your arm for a while, maybe the rest of the day."

Montag muttered something in slurred Russian.

"Fine then," Dirkens said, pressing down on Montag's shoulder, slipping it back into the joint. "Don't come crying to me when your arm falls off."

"_Yes, Mother…_"

With Morris's help, Dirkens brought Montag into a sitting position. Next came the surgical tape, wound around Montag's torso and left arm, securing his left arm to his body at the wrist, elbow, and upper arm. The tape slowly constricted, pulling the arm in and removing any slack. Montag was leaned against an empty ammo rack, and Dirkens walked off to check on the other two Marines.

Morris squatted down in front of Montag. Montag was almost out of it; his eyes were dilated and a dribble of saliva was running down his chin. Hard to imagine that this Marine had just killed a cargo ship full of Covies in the most barbaric way imaginable.

* * *

**Armory 3-C, 0745 Hours**

Da Vega was playing with one of the cigarettes they had liberated from the hanger, flipping it back and forth. It was one of the Camel filters, the kind with the touch-light ends. A plastic cap on the tip held a chemical that would ignite on contact with oxygen. All you had to do was break the seal and it would light the cigarette for you, no matches or anything.

As much as she craved the nicotine, however, she didn't feel like lighting it. The flame would remind her of the bodies outside, and how they had died.

Sitting on an ammo drum across from her, Kanoff was desperately cleaning his shotgun. Specks of blood and grime were easy to get off. Elite saliva and gray matter (it was actually a brownish sort of color) were another story altogether.

Da Vega sighed.

"I wonder if Jonesey is as bored as we are."

* * *

**Pillar of Autumn, Upper Hull; 0812 hours**

Jonesey was busy running a systems check on the cannon he was disconnecting. It weighed a good twenty tons with the framework and hydraulics, and the last thing anybody wanted was to haul one off and find out that it was broken. The XPAQ plugged into the fire control attested to the sound nature of the weapon, despite the crash landing several hours earlier.

Each autocannon had its own fire-control computer that coordinated defense with the rest of the battery, and handled the complex mathematics of hitting car-sized vehicles at five miles away. The ship's AI could override it in case of an emergency or malfunction, but the computer saved the AI a lot of processing.

Jonesey was testing the autocannon's axis of movement when his radio crackled.

"We got Covenant reinforcements inbound! I'm counting a total of eighteen bandits. Everyone take cover!"

Jonesey looked up from his work. He could see what looked like seven Spirit Dropships and a lot of Banshees in the distance. He should hide and wait for the Pelican to come get him… or he could do something about the problem.

He pulled up another menu and began typing.

_ Hydraulic Pumps: ON_

_ ENTER_

_ Target Acquisition: ON_

_ ENTER_

The Autocannon whined and moved, pointing directly at the approaching Covenant.

_ Unit Status: Active_

Jonesey reached over and grabbed one of the most useful tools he had ever encountered. It looked like a cross between a very large double-barreled shotgun and an overgrown assault rifle. It had attachments that he could clip additional tools to, ranging from a plasma-cutter to arc welders.

Holding the tool tightly, Jonesey grabbed onto the gun's framework (Thirty meters is a very long ways to fall) and pressed the Enter key. The autocannon quit firing after ten seconds, and Jonesey looked back up. Every last aircraft had been shot to pieces by something they had not expected. No wonder the Brass wanted these things.

Jonesey turned on his radio.

"Covenant?" He said, a little too loudly. "I don't see any Covenant."

* * *

**Armory 3-C, 0812 hours**

Da Vega had given up entirely on the cigarette, and walked over to the twins.

"Any idea when the team is getting here?"

June shook her head. "At least another fifteen minutes. Morris had to call them and tell them to wait."

Da Vega sighed and sat down. The twins were a lot easier to tell apart with their helmets off. June wore her hair slightly longer, in a boyish hairstyle. Liz, on the other hand, had cut hers almost down to the roots a while ago. It was barely at one centimeter now, giving her a spiky appearance.

"Anybody notice anything weird about the weapons in here?"

Kanoff was looking at the stack of crates in the center of the room. All of the weapons and ammo, from the magazines to the rockets, had been moved into the center of the room and quickly sorted into piles by type.

June looked up from her helmet and studied the weapons. Nothing seemed to be different.

"What are you talking about? I don't see anything different."

Kanoff forgot about the shotgun he was reassembling and walked over.

"It's not what's different. It's what's _missing_. I noticed it when we abandoned ship, but I thought that I just didn't have time to look and missed something."

Liz realized what he was talking about.

"You're right! There's no SMGs or BR-40s. And why do they have a defoliator on a ship like this?"

Da Vega was too spent to care, really. Kanoff had mentioned using the SMG as a sidearm, but she preferred the pistol.

"I read something in Leatherneck Magazine about the BR-55 getting shipped out to Earth and other colonies," June ventured. "They could have been in the process of replacing them when this ship was in port."

"Then why don't we have either one of the models?"

"I have no idea."

* * *

Montag opened his eyes.

He wasn't sure how long he had been sleeping, but he doubted it was more than fifteen minutes, twenty-five for safety.

He felt great, relatively. His left shoulder still hurt, but the sedative had worn off. He felt rested, alert, like he had just taken a six-hour nap. He deserved it too. He had only taken brief catnaps in between engagements, and had not settled down for a proper rest since he had gotten out of the cyrotube.

With his right eye closed, he looked around for his helmet. During the scuffle with Sergeant Morris, it had been knocked off. He found it, put it on, and then pressed the power button on the HMD.

The screen, grayish brown when powered down, turned an off-white color. Words appeared, superimposed over a triangle divided into three parts.

Cyberdyne Systems

Infantry/Weapon Optic-Dynamic Network

Beta test model: (2541) I-SSM-22

Montag smiled. Cyberdyne Systems. Aside from General Dynamics and Cyrez, it was one of Consolidated Industries' crown jewels. Hell, without the automation and computer technologies pioneered by Cyberdyne, Consolidated Industries wouldn't have become the household word it was now.

Consolidated Industries was a conglomerate of the largest military contractors, working in fields ranging from firearms to armor to pharmaceuticals to vehicles. Just about any military hardware the UNSC and many planetary governments used groundside, or at least below low orbit, were produced by one of the companies under CI. Consolidated Industries was so big, especially with the war going on, that it controlled the economy of a dozen major planets and had over thirty million employees.

Please Calibrate.

Montag looked at the flashing yellow dots and blinked, going through the familiar process of calibrating the HMD. He remembered the first time he had done this, when the Cyberdyne representative/technician had explained how it worked.

At the time, the UNSC Marine Corps had been going through the process of upgrading the HMDs issued to Marines. The model that Montag was using was one of the candidates. It had plenty of extra features, from full color video to the ability to display live footage from select weapons, like the Rifle. (The previous HMD, as it was holographic, could only display green-hued black and white video, although it recorded in color)

However, as useful as it was, many of the features were not _absolutely_ necessary, and another model (A holographic HMD, with expanded capabilities and processing power over the previous model) earned the contract.

Interestingly enough, since _both_ companies just _happened_ to be subsidiaries of Consolidated Industries, the two HMDs used almost the exact same operating system, and the HMD that Montag used was compatible with the standard HMD, although it tended to turn heads.

Life was oddly bizarre sometimes, but Consolidated Industries' stock went up all the same.

The familiar icons began popping up on the screen, and Montag pulled out the Handgun.

The tracker on the underside of the barrel had been intended to be used on assault rifles and shotguns and the like. The intent was to give infantry a better idea of where they were shooting at, with a FPS-like quality.

Montag quickly found that the video linking from the Rifle could be used to aim it with greater accuracy, and no need to squint through the scope. The tracker had quickly been regulated to the Handgun.

Montag switched on the tracker's laser, and lined the laser dot up with the sights. He didn't squeeze off a shot though. His right arm felt bad enough without additional shock. The Gaubika had a special firing chamber, with some of the reloading mechanism situated in the handgrip ahead of the magazine. Not as effective as a Kriss Super VII, but helped maintain accuracy by directing almost all recoil directly backward instead of upward. Had one Hell of a kick, though.

Sliding the Handgun back into the holster, he sat back and listened to the conversations bubbling in the room. Morris was talking to Dirkins about who would need to be evacuated. The 'Twins' and the 'Lovebirds' were arguing over the weapons.

The weapons…

That was something he had noticed when he had broken into the armory. He normally eschewed the SMG over the Handgun, preferring accuracy and stopping power over RoF. He neglected the BR-40 too, on the grounds that he was a sniper, not a designated marksman.

However, when a Marine goes into Scout Sniper training, he is taught to observe everything. A sniper with honed observation skills could really put them to use. Before the War, snipers had been used for intelligence gathering, scouting enemy bases, investigating everything they did and everything they left behind. By scavenging the trash from an abandoned insurgent camp, a sniper could deduce how high the morale was, how well fed they were, and who they were getting support from. By examining a spent casing, a sniper could tell not only what gun fired it, but where the bullet and the gun were made, and even the condition of the gun that fired it. Many of these skills had been adapted to the War, and many more had been learned in the field.

Ergo, the absence of these particular weapons told him something.

Obviously, they would not be needed for whatever mission the PoA had been sent on, as the guys in S&L weren't completely incompetent. The presence of Marines and their vehicles was proof that the PoA was going to defend a planet, but the weapons choice, the upgraded reactor and MAC didn't fit this scenario. Obviously, the Brass wouldn't send a lone ship to secure this Ring.

Given the Marines, choice of weapons, the new ship systems, and the fact that they were on a Halcyon cruiser, a ship known for their indestructibility, there was only one conclusion.

Boarding action.

One of the most suicidal jobs a Marine can be given, despite how easy Hollywood made it look.

First, the enemy's drive system had to be taken off-line. Assuming that was done without destroying the ship, the attacker would have to close in to point-blank ranges, cosmically speaking, overcoming inertia, orbital motion, and a dozen other laws of physics that worked against two million-ton warships in their attempts to match speed and vector. Then Marines had to fly over in dropships, at the mercy of the enemy's point-defense systems. They had to smash their way into a docking bay. In pre-War boarding attempts, the enemy would often open the vacuum hatches in the docks, sucking the boarders out into the void.

Even if the Marine's survived all of this, they would be left fighting close-quarters with an enemy that knew the territory. The enemy had all the defenses, and intelligence or reinforcements were often impossible to get.

Of course, this was understandable. As a veteran of several tours, Gui Montag knew a fact that the UNSC kept hidden from as many people as possible.

Humanity was losing this war.

Montag took out a cigarette and lit it. The lighter he used was one of the brass plated ones, with an image of the Grim Reaper seared onto one of the sides. The dancing flame reminded him of his last victory, just outside this room.

Humanity was losing the war. Montag had seen a dozen planets or so go up in flame, and only one had put up a decent fight; the closest thing to a victory Montag had ever seen.

The UNSC claimed that they inflicted more damage on the Covenant than the Covenant inflicted on us. Their analysts and PR flaks infused the media, regurgitating endless propaganda about how the Covenant couldn't keep up the war, how they would be forced to leave us alone in a few years at this rate.

The ironic thing was that the Marines would be the first to die out, when they were the only ones who really deserved to live.

The last few times Montag had gone out amongst the 'civvies', (a term that was unsurprisingly close to 'covvie') he had the urge to keep washing his hands, like there was some sort of infection that they spread. They all went on with their long, dull, uninteresting lives, working day in and day out, ignoring the Covenant threat like sheep ignoring the wolves upon a nearby hill. Pathetic.

No, it was worse than that.

Montag's hand tightened around his lighter, the knuckles turning white. This thought process was rapidly devolving into a pantheon of hatred. Hatred for the Covenant. Hatred for Humanity. Hatred for the civilian morass. Hatred for…

His train of thought was quickly interrupted by the squawking of the command-reserved channel on his radio.

"This is Retrieval Team Charlie. This is Retrieval Team Charlie, calling Beta-Sierra Squad."

Sergeant Morris switched on an acknowledgment.

"This is Sergeant Morris; I hear you loud and clear. Are you guys outside?"  
"Knocking on the front door. Looks like you guys had a party out here."

"You'd be surprised," Morris said. He then turned to the Marines scattered throughout the armory. "Lock and load! Retrieval is here!"

The Marines scrambled. Two positioned near the door unlocked it, and another Sergeant walked in.

Morris greeted him and offered help with loading the ammo. The Sergeant abruptly refused.

"Nah. My Marines can handle it. You just get your men out on guard duty."

"I've also got two people wounded-"

The Sergeant smiled. "Would one of them be the one who threw that barbeque outside?"

Morris didn't think it was funny, and this Sergeant was starting to tick him off. "Can you take them, or can't you?"

"Nope. Those Warthogs are going to be filled to capacity."

The Sergeant turned to look at the two injured Marines, the one with the bad arm and the one with the bad back.

"We can make just enough room for the one with the broken back if we shift things around a little. If the other one has to go, then he'll be walking, and frankly we won't be going all that slow."

By this time, all of Sierra Squad had moved out to the hallway, and the retrieval team had formed a line from the stack of ammo to the doorway. The lighter boxes were being carried away hand to hand, and the heavier boxes were being loaded onto dollies and carted out.

"Fine then. Call me when you want to cooperate."

The Sergeant shrugged. "You'll be the first to know."

Frustrated, Morris stormed outside into the hallway.

Sierra squad had moved out into the hallway to give the retrieval team more room to work with. This had caused a problem. The retrieval Warthogs, with the trailers, took up all of the hallway to one side of the armory. The hallway on the other side was where Montag had gone on the killing spree.

It was rather unsettling. A thick coating of black grime covered everything, and all that was left of the corpses were charred remains. The Jackals were the worst. The skin had burned and peeled off, leaving asphalt muscles and tendons covering the bones. Then the bones had shattered, where the marrow had melted and boiled..

So the Marines were standing as close to the door as possible, trying not to inhale the sickly-sweet odor of cooked meat, trying not to look at the carnage.

Morris walked out of the Armory and began to address them.

"Alright, we're moving on to our last objective. Everyone stay alert; I don't want to run into another group like this."

He turned and pointed at Montag, who was examining the remains of the Flamethrower.

"As for you, I want you to stay in the middle of the squad, and I want you to stay out of the way."

Montag cocked his head.

Morris gritted his teeth. There was one in every squad. "You can't shoot a weapon with one arm, and you'll get yourself shot to pieces.

Montag bent down and picked up a blackened plasma rifle. Hefting it with his right arm, he fired a trio of shots at the ceiling.

Morris stepped forward so he was face to face with Montag. "You got a death wish or something?"

Montag's visible eye was cold as ice, the red lens on his HMD substituted for his right eye.

"That's between me and God, sir."

Morris leaned closer, his voice lowering so that only Montag could hear.

"You keep this up, and I'll put a bullet through your head, let you talk to God in person."

"Whenever you feel lucky, sir."

Morris was taken back. He had merely been threatening Montag. Montag's reply, when coupled with the scene behind him, was on an entirely different level.

Putting that on the back-burner, he turned around. "All right, we're moving on. We have fifteen minutes to reach our next objective."

June stepped forward from the group. "Sir, we haven't had a decent break since we got out of the cyro tubes. We've been on the move ever since, and we've been fighting for about half of the time. We haven't even had a meal yet. How about we let Alpha take care of it."

Morris forced himself to remember that she was joking, and smiled. Glad she brought that up, actually. "Oh, trust me. You are going to love our next objective."

He paused dramatically. "Marines; you will be fighting for your lunch today. As a matter of fact, our next objective is the Mess Hall."

The other twin raised her hand. "Sir, what the Hell are we waiting for?"

* * *

**A/N: Not quite a month since I've updated. I hope I've made it up with a slightly longer chapter, and a few explanations. And don't worry. I won't force them to spend too long in the PoA, like last time...**

**Well, the next chapter won't be out till I finish "Take a Breath", which will be over in the StarCraft section.**

**Don't forget to Read and Review!**

**And, it's recently come to my attention that there's a certain map on Halo 3 called 'Isolation'. Nice... if it's only a coincidence, but still pretty nice.**


	15. Of MacGuiverism and Grenades

**God, I hate them. Those pundits on Fox. Those reporters for CNN. I hate everyone watching this conflict from the safety of their couches, second guessing our actions, calling us monsters, calling it a massacre. I hate every one of those bleeding hearts who don't give a s--- about us.  
How the Hell can they judge us? They weren't there.**

**Sergeant T. Barnes**

* * *

**Armory, 0900 hours**

Before they left the armory, Sergeant Morris had pulled out a laptop and outlined their path through the Pillar of Autumn. It was a shorter journey than the last one, as the bullet flies. Unfortunately, there were more twists and turns, and they would have to ascend another floor. The better the squad knew their path, the smoother it would go.

What worried Morris was the thought of running up against another group of Covenant. That last one had been platoon sized, and he had heard warnings on the radio about them.

He had already checked that his Marines were fully loaded with ammo and grenades. They were as prepared as they could be.

This well planned, well prepared journey, however, would begin with the first step, just like every other journey.

Unfortunately, that step, and a few dozen steps after that, would be over the burned bodies of the Covenant platoon.

Morris looked down the hallway. It was dark, as the lights had been destroyed by the flames. Black grime covered the warped walls, a mixture of soot, carbon, and grease. The bodies were the worst. It was like looking into a crematorium that had only done half the job.

Already, the squad was moving into that part of the hallway, and Morris forced himself to keep walking.

The ground felt oily somehow, probably the same grime that covered the walls. Perhaps a lot of it was unburned Pyrosene. Morris quickly checked to make sure that nobody was smoking.

Since the lights were out, the Marines had turned their flashlights on. Beams of light swept through the dust motes and illuminated the gruesome spectacle on the ground. Burned bodies were not a pleasant sight.

Morris saw one of the Marines shining his flashlight at a particularly gruesome corpse. It had been a Jackal, before the flames had tenderized the flesh and muscles, and then the marrow had expanded enough to burst the bones. The very sight of it caused Morris to be physically ill.

He looked at the ceiling, away from the bodies. The fire suppressant system had burst from the back pressure, splitting open the ceiling panels. Come to think of it, there was probably a lot of CO2 in here, which was probably why it was so hard to breathe.

Morris started playing one of Disaster Area's songs in his head, kept looking at the ceiling, and then took a step. And then another step.

_Crunch_.

Morris froze. Forcing himself not to think about what he was stepping in, he started walking again, his heart all a flutter.

_Crunch._

Another step, and he felt solid deck plating again, albeit with the dark, grimy coating. However, it felt… greasier somehow.

He felt his stomach lurch, felt his throat tighten.

"Hey," he heard Da Vega whisper. "Ya know what this smells like?"

"What?" another Marine asked.

"Barbecued pork. Smells just like that."

Morris doubled over and puked all over the deck plating. He kept throwing up until he was dry heaving, and the deck in front of him was covered in bile..

"Sorry," he sputtered, a minute later.

The Marines kept walking, avoiding the corpses. Quickly, they came to a door, too far away to have been touched by the flames.

Morris opened the door and turned towards the Marines.

"Alright, we do this like we discussed. I want two groups leapfrogging each other, Five meter spread, no sound."

Sierra squad split into two preassigned groups, one group slipping through the door, the other one following two minutes later.

The hallway was dark. That was good. Montag preferred it that way.

Darkness meant that it would be harder for the Covenant to see the entire squad. Darkness meant that it would be harder for him to be spotted. Darkness meant that he would have the advantage, with years of experience, semi-camouflage armor, and several HMD filters to see with.

Montag had taken full advantage of the darkness. There wasn't much he could do about his HMD, as the camera on the front tended to glow a dull red under certain conditions. However, he'd taken a spare shirt and wrapped it around the plasma rifle, covering the lights on the side.

Montag glanced at the top of the HMD. There was a long bar, showing a spectrum. As Montag looked at it, it went from a dull transparency to full color.

Montag blinked.

A buzzing sound with a little bit of static, and the Screen suddenly displayed Infrared.

Montag preferred Infrared, despite the lack of detail. Night vision gave more detail, but didn't show the enemies as bright red blobs, and would ruin a person's natural night vision, ironically. There was also the problem of bright flashes blinding you and leaving you prone.

An acknowledgement light blinked, and Montag's group quietly got up and walked another meters down the hallway.

There wasn't enough cover in this hallway, just some structural supports along the walls and holes where wall panels had been jarred off. The hallway was half again as wide as a Warthog, just wide enough for the group to move quickly down.

Montag slid along the wall and came to a stop right next to somebody. Infrared was nice for spotting targets, but lousy for identifying friendlies.

The Marine snorted and looked at Montag.

"You still smell like cooked ham," Morris whispered.

Montag shrugged. "So what, you're Jewish?"

"Did you have to practice to be this much of an arse, or does it come naturally?"

Montag laughed quietly, but it came out as more of a dry hissing. "Sir, just think of it as the sweet smell of victory."

The leading Marines in the group were finished scouting and switched on an acknowledgement light. The other group got up and quietly ran ahead to the intersection up ahead.

"How much longer are we staying in this deathtrap?"

"Like I said, this is our last objective."  
"I'm talking about this hallway. There ain't enough cover; a trio of Elites or Jackals could keep us pinned down, and there's nothing we can do about it."

Morris turned to face Montag in the dark.

"A little uneasy without your flamethrower? Keep your pants on; we take a right at this intersection and run for another ten meters. Then we're halfway to our objective."

The acknowledgement light came on again, and they were off, running towards the intersection. Montag paused, squatting to one side in the intersection. Further ahead, the hallway terminated in a locked door, which probably led out into one of the Service Corridors, or the Highways, as Montag had started to think of them. To the left, Montag could see a door that led to a machine shop, or maybe a storage room for spare parts.

Montag's general rule of thumb for any spaceship was this: One third of any given ship or orbital platform was devoted to storage, be it cyro chambers, warehouses, or life support systems. The next third was devoted to actually doing stuff, be it the reactor, drives, bridge, or cafeterias/kitchens. The last third was devoted to getting around.

If only these warships could be made truly autonomous. You could almost entirely eliminate that last third, and probably a good portion of the other two thirds. You could have larger fleets of smaller warships that were just as effective at combating the Covenant. The ships could be built faster, and the Navy personnel could be recycled into the Marine Corps, or into the shipyards or factories.

Unfortunately, Humanity never trusted its mechanical children, no matter how hard the technology worked for them.

On the other hand, Montag's view on this was probably unique…

Montag felt something slap the back of his helmet. He twisted around, sprawling on the floor, reducing his profile by instinct.

Kanoff was standing behind him, gleaming shotgun in his hands.

"Ya fall asleep or something?"

Montag threw his right arm out, the arm holding the plasma rifle, and rocked to his feet.

The hallway they had turned on to was different, slightly brighter. Shafts of white light filtered from the far end of the hallway, giving everything a harsh contrast.

The halfway point, the room they stopped at, was given the title of 'Auxiliary Starboard Life Support', a title that proved Montag's earlier point.

The last two doors that the Marines had to go through were locked. Wouldn't luck have it, this door was not only unlocked, but open too. Thankfully, another retrieval team had come through here, securing a few items on Command's wish list. That only made Sierra Squad's job easier.

Without a command from Sergeant Morris, the squad split up, half of them fanning out through the room, checking for hostiles. The other half traveled to the other side of the large room, going for the stairways.

Montag stole down an aisle. On the ground floor of this room, there were rows and rows of atmosphere recyclers. They were off-line, quiet. Normally, they would be busy recycling carbon dioxide into oxygen, and regulating the content of the atmosphere on the PoA.

The retrieval team that had come through here hadn't taken the equipment without a fight. There were tanks with bullet holes and plasma burns, and many more with blood splatters. Leaning against one ruined tank was a Grunt, its chest riddled with bullet holes.

Montag switched from infrared to night vision, examining the Grunt's face.

No Marine could hate only the Covenant, not when there was so much to despise about the individual races. And Montag had a long, mental list of the things he hated about each and every species he had encountered, carefully assembled and memorized over the years.

The Grunts were at the top of that list. You couldn't look at them and see any intelligence, only a primitive animalistic drive that was dulled by fear. It was easy to lead them into traps, or to break them into a disorganized rabble. Unfortunately, they made rather effective meat shields. Annoying, and slightly dangerous. Especially when they played dead.

Montag raised the plasma rifle and brought it crashing down on the Grunt's head, shattering it like a ripe melon. A plasma grenade fell from its left hand.

Montag heard boots clanging on the grating above him. Marines were walking on the catwalk above him. He didn't wait for the order for the lower half of the squad to fall back to the stairs and regroup.

* * *

Most of the equipment taken from the room had come from the upper deck. It wasn't really a deck, but a series of wide catwalks that wound around the machinery. It was just there for servicing and maintenance. 

June played her flashlight over one of the cavities where a machine had been. This one had been large, and had required a lot of cutting to remove.

"What do you think was here?"

Behind her, Kanoff shone his light over the surrounding machinery.

"Probably a backup reactor to run the life support, just in case. Notice all the power lines and conduits that were connected?"

"Great. You think that means we'll be getting warm showers?"

Kanoff shrugged. "I hope so, but I'm not betting on it."

He continued walking, past more machinery, to where Da Vega was standing. She was gazing out into the darkness at the deck below.

"Whatcha thinking about?"

Da Vega pointed down. Montag was studying a dead Grunt. Then, with a lethality that stunned them both, Montag smashed the Grunts head in with the plasma rifle he was carrying.

"Kinda bloodthirsty." Kanoff mused.

"I don't know," Da Vega muttered. "He just seems… despondent somehow. Or maybe like he's… disconnected from reality."

"So, he killed an entire platoon of Covenant in the most brutal way imaginable, but that's alright because he probably doesn't know what he's doing?"

Da Vega's eyes flashed. "I hate what he's done. He's sadistic, insubordinate, and I can't think of any excuse for holding a gun to Lincoln's head, twice. And his sarcasm is starting to get on my nerves. But he's also done some good. He got us off the Autumn in the first place, and then he covered our backs in that horseshoe canyon. So pardon me if I decide to cut him a little slack, because we don't know _anything_ about him."

Kanoff sighed. "Sorry."

Da Vega shrugged. "No, you're probably right. He is quite an arsehole."

* * *

As soon as he had gotten to the upper catwalks, Montag saw why they had come through here. There were two doors on this level, from what he could see. Coming through here was a shortcut, and almost guaranteed to be free of enemies, since another squad had come through less than ten minutes ago. 

It took lees than a minute for everyone to assemble, and even less time for everyone to start moving out. They weren't leapfrogging anymore, there was even less cover than the previous hallway. It was better to just stick to the walls, and keep a sharp eye on the end of the corridor.

There were a few places on the Pillar of Autumn that seemed to defy logic. The Access 'Highways' for example, had roundabouts and four-leaf-clover turns, especially when they met up with the docks and hangars. That made sense.

However, there were places, especially near stairs and elevators, where cul-de-sacs and redundant corridors were the norm. You could start out in one hallway, and take three different paths into the room with the stairs. The only reason Montag could think for it was some sort of defense against boarders, although it seemed to work against both sides.

Now, back to the corridor. It had several doors that led off to either side, although most of the ones on the right were locked. At the end was a closed door that led to the stairway. Except that it wasn't that easy, although the Marines had never expected it to be. Although the metal and ceramics in the walls and doors blocked a lot of thermal radiation, Montag could still see excess heat coming through the windows in the open door.

The Covenant were waiting for them, waiting to ambush them, although they were doing a crappy job at hiding. Same old, same old.

Morris had pulled out his laptop and brought up a floor plan. The stairwell was shown as a large square; their hallway was a thin rectangle leading into it. The doors on the left opened up into a parallel hallway that bent around the stair room and entered into a corner of the room.

"Three people are being left here to act as an initial distraction," Morris began, tapping his finger on their hallway. "Everyone else will be going through the other hall and attacking the defenders from this angle." He circled the corner of the stair room with his finger."

Montag pointed out the flaw in the plan before Morris stopped speaking. "Sir, that'll let us get pinned down, and it leaves our backs open to a rear attack."

Morris gave Montag a long, hard look.

"Corporal. I am well aware of the limitations of the plan, perhaps more so than you are. However, we'll be using Argemones as a rear defense, and that one corner of the room offers more cover than this hallway. I don't like our options, I wish we had more men and women to pull this off, but that's not an option, now is it?"

Montag remained silent, his expression unreadable.

"In the mean time, you, Private Kanoff and Private Da Vega are going to stay behind. When I give the all-clear, I want you three to launch a distraction with some Argemones we'll be leaving behind."

Montag mulled this over as Sierra squad got ready for action. The Argemones were something that he must have missed; maybe the squad had looted them from the armory when he was out. This changed their tactical situation, somewhat.

The Argemone anti-personal mine was a cousin of the Lotus anti-tank mine, although it had a different purpose. When activated, it would track potential targets with radar and motion sensors, although it could be remotely detonated. When triggered, or when a sufficient number of targets was within its field of fire, each one would detonate a shaped charge, propelling two hundred and eighty eight armor piercing fletchett rounds through just about anything in their way. The spray could be fine tuned, anywhere from a wide-reaching ninety degrees to a tightly focused (and highly lethal) thirty degrees. Along with cluster bombs and napalm, the darn things had been inches away from being blacklisted by the UN, joining the ranks of chemical weapons and 'dum-dum' bullets.

As Sierra squad filtered through the door, the trio of Marines unwrapped the four Argemones given to them. They resembled the 'footballs' Montag had seen Americans throwing around, although it looked like someone had taken the football, stretched one end, and then given it a finned tail. They were packaged in pairs, wrapped in some sort of plastic with an easy-open tab.

As they checked the mines, Da Vega was talking.

"Are we supposed to have a backup plan in case something goes wrong?"

Montag shrugged with his good shoulder. "I'm still working on that."

They picked up the Argemones and slowly carried them down the hall. They had to get close enough to the door that the mines would be effective, but not close enough to get it to open. Five meters from the door, they stopped, flipped down the bipods on the underside and set two mines down on opposite sides of the hallway. Two more mines were set just further back.

Montag flipped the control panel on one open, and the front 'peeled' open. Three panels flipped to the side, and from the front the Argemones looked like large flowers with three large, sensor-embedded petals. However, if you were in position to make this observation, it was a pretty good idea to move.

Montag twisted a dial, setting the dial for a forty-five degree spread. Another button linked the four mines together, setting them to go off one after the other, remote trigger only. Entire minefields could be set up this way, making for a really bad day on the part of the enemy.

Next, the three of them retreated, their work done.

Montag was impatient. They all knew that they'd have to improvise something, and his mind was racing. Coming up and eliminating whatever might come up behind Morris was out of the question; not enough people. They could try outflanking whatever was in the stair room, but that still had the same problem…

"So, what's it like to burn them?"

The question caught Montag by surprise. Right now, conversation was the last thing on his mind.

He shifted from his sitting position and looked at Da Vega. In the darkness, the only things visible were her silhouette and her eyes reflecting the light from the distant doorway. All right, so she actually just showed up as a red blob on Montag's HMD.

"What was it like to kill all those Covenant in that hallway?"

Montag paused, thinking. How was he supposed to summarize things in words, the urges and the exhilaration? "Kinda like… it's great. I… "

"Is it like holding a gun to someone's head?"

Montag's entire demeanor changed. It hard to tell in the dark, but he seemed to withdraw into himself, somehow.

"I'm sorry, am I supposed to be lying down in a lounge chair or something, 'cause you don't look like Freud."

"Listen, when you put a gun to someone's head, that's basically a cry for help."

Montag hated confrontations like this. He hated talking about himself.

"I threatened Lincoln because he was asking the same questions you are. 'What the Hells wrong with me?' Nothing. By any decent standards, I am just fine."

"So you don't like talking about this?"

"Of course not!" Montag snarled.

"_Can we shut the hell up?!" _Kanoff hissed. "It's a wonder that they haven't heard you two!"

* * *

It had taken the rest of the squad four minutes to reach the door to the Stair room. Another thirty seconds were devoted to laying four Argemones as a rear guard. It wouldn't stop anything from coming up behind them, but it would slow them down. 

All that separated them from the stair room was a door. The corner that they would be holing up in was filled with a few crates and a barricade. It was the most defensible position in the room, and should allow them to assault the Covenant with very good protection.

Ideally, he would have half of his squad coming through the door where Montag, Kanoff, and Da Vega were, but he didn't have enough men. This was compounded by the fact that he didn't know exactly where the Covenant were in the room.

Life had dealt him a pretty crappy hand, and the Covenant probably had a few aces up their sleeve. And he just couldn't walk away from the table.

If only they were playing lowball poker.

Taking a deep breath, he uttered a prayer and switched on an acknowledgment light.

* * *

Kanoff saw a light in his HMD go from red to green. He stood up and threw one of the packages that the Argemones had come in. It sailed through the air and landed right in front of the door, triggering the motion sensor. As the doors swished open, Da Vega clicked a button on one of the remotes. 

One of the Argemones went off. The explosion consumed the casing and propelled two hundred and eighty eight needle-like projectiles through the air, mincing a trio of Grunts that had been on the other side of the door.

Only three Grunts?

* * *

Morris triggered the door, and the Marines ran through. Two Grunts on the other side were slaughtered under a hail of bullets. 

Immediately, an answering salvo of plasma bolts sailed over the tops of the crates, striking one of the Marines down.

The Marines automatically ducked behind the crates and under the barricade. Morris took a quick look, and then rolled back behind one of the crates.

The Covenant were perched on the landing above them, across the room, and had the benefit of their portable plasma shields. Christ, they had been waiting for a human squad to do what Morris had done!

Another Marine screamed as he was hit by a plasma bolt fired from back in the hallway. He was drowned out by one of the Argemones going off.

Morris whirled around and fired his assault rifle back into the hall.

The Argemone didn't kill very many of the rear assault, but they hadn't exposed themselves. Their job was to keep the Marines from retreating, not to engage them.

Morris waited for a second, and then started shooting the lights in the ceiling. The Covenant were lit up like Christmas trees, but the Marines were harder to see and shoot in the dark.

"Fire at the rear guard! Don't let them get within grenade range!" Morris shouted, getting answering calls from the rest of the Marines.

They would have to fight their way out of the stair room. With the plasma barriers, there was no way they would be able to engage the Covenant on the upper landing.

* * *

The trio of Marines stared at the open doorway. Plasma bolts were pouring across the room, to the area where the squad was supposed to be. 

"Aw man, who'd ever think we'd have to work this hard to get lunch?"

Montag rolled his eyes. "Apparently, you weren't at Lublanskya Hills."

"How's the backup plan?"

Montag's mind raced, dozens of solutions presenting themselves. From what they could see, the rear guard wasn't attacking the squad, just making sure that they didn't retreat. The group on the upper landing was doing the damage, while staying out of range.

That was the group they'd have to attack.

Montag dropped his backpack, unrolled it, and pulled out two items: A beer can with a magnesium timer stuck into the opening, and a roll of duct tape. Two fragmentation grenades rapidly joined the previous items.

With his good arm, Montag picked up the thermite grenade and tossed it to Kanoff. He did the same thing with the roll of duct tape, and pointed at a doorway to their right.

"Tape that thing just above the middle of that door."

"What? Why?"

Montag hated explaining himself. People were always asking him questions; 'where are you going?' or 'what are you doing?' or even 'why do you have a gun pointed to my head?' Nine times out of ten, whatever Montag was doing benefited whoever he was working with. That other one out of ten times, they probably wouldn't want to know what the Hell he was doing.

When you worked alone, like he usually did, you don't have to explain yourself. You don't have to communicate. You just do it. It's faster that way, easier that way.

Montag pulled out the plasma rifle and aimed it at Kanoff.

"It'll take too long to explain. Just do what I tell you to do, and we'll all come out of this alive. _Now_!"

Da Vega stepped up right beside Kanoff.

"Alright, arsehole, how about a deal? You put down the gun, and we tape that thing to the door. While we're doing that, you can tell us what we're going to be doing."

Montag mulled over her words. Every second spent arguing was another second the Covenant had to cut down the rest of the squad. There was an inverse relationship between the size of a given squad and the amount of casualties it would incur later on. The fastest way to save the squad was to get the other two Marines to work with him, and the easiest way to do that was to acquiesce to Da Vega's proposal.

Montag clipped the plasma rifle to his holster and shrugged.

Kanoff secured the thermite grenade where Montag had indicated, struggling to tear the tape and hold the grenade in place until Da Vega stepped in and helped him.

Montag gritted his teeth. He'd be doing this faster, if only he had the use of both of his arms. Unfortunately, his left arm was strapped to his side, because of his own foolishness. He had only himself to blame for it, only himself to hate for it, but that last part came easily enough.

"We're going to try and blow through that door. Beyond that is a passage that leads past another door that opens up beneath the Covenant pinning down the squad. We get beneath them and blow them to hell with a satchel charge."

Da Vega turned around and looked at him.

"Um... that didn't take too long to explain."

He gingerly picked up the fragmentation grenades and carefully handed them over. "Whatever. Now strap these to the center of the doorway, half-meter below the beer can."

They quickly did that, taping the grenades to the appropriate places. Kanoff made sure that the pins were exposed, an unnecessary gesture.

"Back off!"

Montag shot the thermite grenade with the plasma rifle. The plasma bolt soaked right into the can and triggered the thermite reaction. As the Marines dove for cover, the molten metal dribbled down towards the grenades as the heat weakened the door.

With twin reports, both fragmentation grenades cooked off at the same time, ripping the door open.

Montag motioned for the other two Marines to stop. Reaching into the pouches in the side of his pants' legs, Montag pulled out two plasma grenades and a frag, along with the duct tape he'd picked up.

"Ok, here's part two." he breathlessly explained. "We're going to need a satchel charge."

That one got him blank stares from both of the other Marines. The things they don't teach you in boot camp.

Montag kicked one of the blue globes lying on the ground. "Someone tape those two plasma grenades together. Make sure you cover the switches."

This time, Da Vega did the honors, taping the two grenades together with a long strip lengthwise, and then adding another loop of tape around where the two grenades touched.

Montag continued to give instructions. "Right, now tape the frag grenade to the others. Make sure you leave the handle free… Okay, now tape a large loop onto the grenades. That's going to be your strap."

When they were done, Da Vega was left holding a mass of tape and explosives, with a loop of duct tape for a handle. This DIY satchel charge was somewhere between creative and crazy, on her list.

Montag was busy trying to remember what he had seen when Morris was displaying the floor plan. Through the door, a left, a weird roundabout corner, a left, and then a cul-de-sac with a side door that opened up onto the stair room.

"Um… shouldn't we have waited 'til we got there to add the frag?"

Montag shook his head. "I'd rather assemble it when we're free than risk having to assemble it in combat."

Montag picked up the plasma rifle and leapt through the doorway, over the pile of molten iron and aluminum. Kanoff and Da Vega quickly followed.

The lights weren't on in the hallway they left, and were off on most of the ship. Ergo, it made sense that the lights were off in the hallway they entered.

That was alright though. The lights on the Covenant weapons and armor gave off enough light to see by.

Montag cursed as he saw the Covenant lance, perhaps a secondary rear guard in case the squad had come this way. Three Marines up against a Covenant Lance was never a good thing.

Da Vega and Kanoff crouched down and started firing their weapons, while Montag dropped and started rolling, avoiding incoming projectiles from the faster members of the lance.

_I want grenades and suppressing fire on a count of three!!!_

"Grenades!" somebody shouted, maybe Kanoff.

_Get those Reavers on the bloody mortar!_

Montag snatched his last fragmentation grenade from a pouch on his right leg and threw it.

_SLAUGHTER 'EM BOYS!_

Three explosions went off, but Montag saw the shields flare and die on two Elites. Apparently, one must have behind a Jackals shield, protecting the Elites from most of the damage..

Plasma bolts lanced out and struck Da Vega in the chest. She was already off balance from throwing the grenade, and fell as the searing plasma hit her. The satchel charge clipped to her belt slipped off and hit the ground. Montag, not a meter away, heard the pin snap free from the fragmentation grenade.

Montag hoped and prayed there was no afterlife; he wouldn't be able to stand the humiliation. He than realize the inherent contradiction, and merely hoped there was no afterlife.

Kanoff stepped in and kicked the satchel charge, the loop catching on his foot and swinging high. The device flew through the air and clattered somewhere behind the Elites.

BANG-WHUMP!

The double explosion hit Montag like a drumbeat, and he felt shrapnel slicing his flesh for the second time in a few seconds. He saw something red, armored, and alien fly over him, and then he heard it smash into the wall. Secondary explosions were sounding off, crushing Montag's eardrums.

It was over. The Lance was dead, albeit only after judicious use of grenades. It was just the three of them, lying on the deck, breathing heavily.

Montag was the first to rise, rubbing the shrapnel wounds in his forehead, cheeks and arms. Nothing too bad, nothing he couldn't patch up in a few minutes with tweezers and superglue.

Kanoff got up at about the same time, having been knocked on his back by the explosion. While Montag repositioned his helmet and checked his HMD, Kanoff crawled over to Da Vega and helped her sit up.

"How bad is she hit?"

Kanoff shook his head. "Her armor is glowing dull red, and she's been hit in the chest."

Montag didn't say anything.

Kanoff was getting agitated. "Aren't we supposed to remove the breastplate and cool if off?"

Da Vega rocked to her feet and tried to stand up. "Yeah, bet you want to remove more than that."

Kanoff helped her stand up while Montag went over his equipment. The Handgun was okay, protected by its holster. It was the Rifle he was worried about. He could only do a cursory check now, and would have to do a more detailed investigation for damage later.

"Nice way of getting us killed."

Montag glared at Kanoff.

"Improvised Explosive Device." He said slowly, emphasizing each word. "_Improvised_. That's the key word there. What the hell do you expect, reliability? Besides, I'm not the one who dropped it in the first place."

"Oh, so now it's HER fault…"

"SHUT UP! MORRIS IS STILL PINNED DOWN!" Da Vega had quite the shriek when she needed it.

Everyone fumed for a minute, trying to figure out what to do. A shotgun, an assault rifle, and a plasma rifle weren't going to cut it, not when they were outgunned by a factor of five. They needed something with bite.

Da Vega was the one to speak up first.

"The deck the Covenant are standing on is diamond grille, right?"

Montag and Kanoff looked at each other.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Kanoff blurted.

"When two people think alike, one of them isn't thinking," Montag admonished. Then he grinned. "But yeah, great plan."

* * *

Ten seconds to go back out the door and get to the Argemones. Three seconds to disarm them. Another twenty seconds, at a full run, to go back through the door, race past the Covenant corpses through the hallway, and out the door underneath the Covenant. Seven seconds to duct tape the Argemones upright, below the Covenant. 

The Covenant never had a chance. Da Vega pressed the trigger on the remote three times. Three Argemones exploded in sequence, blasting a total of eight hundred and sixty four armor piercing flechettes up through the diamond grill and up through the Covenant.

* * *

Morris and the rest of the squad had almost eliminated the rear guard, or at least half of it. It was hard to tell. 

When the explosion came from behind him, he waited a few seconds before sneaking a peek. The Covenant on the upper landing, or those whom he could see, were lying around in tatters. The ceiling above them was riddled with bullet holes and gallons of alien blood.

Without hesitation, Morris shouted the order for withdrawal. The three Marines that couldn't walk were carried out. Everyone ran for the stairs, knowing that the Covenant couldn't follow without getting killed by the Argemones.

Montag, Kanoff, and Da Vega were already at the top. Together, the squad ran as fast as possible through the hallway Morris pointed out.

As Montag glanced behind himself to see if the Covenant were pursuing them, he found himself thinking. Yes, it was annoying, yes, it was slow. But somehow, he'd found working in a group with Kanoff and Da Vega... bearable? Enjoyable?

He didn't have time to reflect on this; they were at their destination:

The Starboard Cafeteria.

* * *

**AN: I'm going to have to end it here.  
Yes, a lot of my chapters are taking place on the Pillar of Autumn, and I said that this would be the last chapter taking place there. I didn't intend for this to happen, and I think that there might be some sort of Quantum Temporal Dilation, caused by the slipspace drive. Weird.**

**Well, in other news... I promise that this wouldn't be updated until I had finished "Take a Breath". Wrong. With all apologies to my fans over in the StarCraft section, that fic is on a hiatus, stored away in a cyrotube until later. However, be on the lookout for something extra in the Halo section.**

**Don't forget to Read and Review!**


	16. Hell, it's about time!

**There is a difference between fr****i****ends and comrades. Comrades and fellow soldiers will risk their lives for you. Friends will not only do that, but they'll also go out and have a few beers with you at the local pub.****  
**

**Drill Sergeant Alan Dubrinsky**

* * *

**0923 Hours****, 19th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
UNSC Pillar of Autumn, ****Starboard Cafeteria**  
**Unidentified Artifact****,  
**

The door opened, and the eleven members of the squad rushed into the room.

The Cafeteria was just like all the others on the ship. Four doors, two sets of two on opposite sides. Sterile tables with benches, crammed between support columns, and vending machines lining the walls, which the Navy personnel would have ordered breakfast and lunch from.

There was plenty of cover in here, and plenty of exits, which could be used against them. Morris ordered Dirkens to go around and lock down the doors, while the rest of the Marines were split into three groups. One group would pile the tables against three of the doors, another group would collect the MREs from the vending machines, and the final group would raid the kitchen. They had twenty minutes to get the job done.

While he was giving orders, June walked over to one of the corners, hauling one of the injured Marines in a fireman's carry. She gently let him down on his side, making sure that the burn on his legs and lower back weren't touching the ground.

She got a good look at the wound while her sister and Dirkens carried the other two casualties over.

Plasma burns are nastier than burns incurred from radiation or fire. Plasma by its very nature can't be contained by matter, and would actually pass through solid material. Plasma burns often went all the way through the body, cremating the organs. The water would superheat, flashing into steam and blowing off the carbonized flesh. Biofoam would hold the wound together and keep the injured person alive, but only for a short time, measured in hours.

Marine armor was made of dense ceramics with ferric inserts that absorbed the plasma, although the user would incur burns on the flesh from the heated armor. Unarmored, plasma burned a person all the way through, and needles would rip and tear a person apart. Either way, it was a cruel way to kill a person.

As Dirkens was injecting the Marines with biofoam and stabilizing them with IVs, June looked at her sister.

"That's the last way I want to go."

Liz nodded. They'd talked about this before, and there was nothing to say now. Together, they walked off towards their group of Marines, entering the kitchen.

* * *

**Starboard Cafeteria****, 0925 Hours**

Montag stared at the vending machines, with their blank, uninspiring exterior.

He'd been assigned to the group that was opening the vending machines, while Kanoff and Da Vega were working in the kitchen.

Good. He felt like being alone.

His rucksack was unslung, dangling from his hand by one strap. He uncurled his fingers, letting it drop to the floor. The Rifle joined it, having been thoroughly checked for damage. The Handgun remained in its holster, the helmet was still being worn.

The group in the kitchen would fetch the keys to the vending machines, so the people out here could open them and carry the MREs out. But Montag didn't feel like waiting.

The Knife was pulled out of its sheath on his belt. He grasped the hardwood handle tightly in his right hand and plunged it into the plastic façade of the vending machine, above the menu. He pulled the Knife through a wide arc, and then pulled it out. He did this again, cutting an intersecting arc and leaving a gaping, oval shaped hole.

Montag transferred the Knife to his left hand, and reached into the hole.

Kanoff and Da Vega had saved him from that Elite yesterday, true. Of course, that was nothing. You save Montag's life, Montag saves yours. Offer no longer compatible with any other sale. That didn't mean that he enjoyed working with them, or respected them. It just meant that they were along for the ride.

A few seconds of fumbling around, and the vending machine clicked open. Montag counted eight rows of six MREs, twelve MREs deep. Another six rows of six drinks, also twelve deep.

Montag did the math in his head at a rapid-fire pace. That made for a total of ninety-six of each type of MRE and seventy-two of each type of drink, for a total of five hundred seventy-six MREs and four hundred thirty-two drinks. Multiplied by the five vending machines he had to open, that meant that he'd be hauling a total of two thousand, seven hundred and forty MREs to the middle of the room where they were supposed to be stacked. Plus the two thousand one hundred and sixty drinks.

God, this stuff piled up fast. Given that there were about four or five hundred Navy personnel on the ship, they probably just filled these vending machines up at the end of the week

Montag walked over to the next vending machine and repeated the process.

Right, but now he had actually had to fight with them for their lives, and he'd discovered something: They actually worked together quite well. This didn't mean anything in itself. Marines were like cogs in the machinery: designed to work together, to be interchangeable. From the day boot camp spit them out to the day they were dropped into a mass-produced grave.

Montag reached through the slash marks he'd just made and opened the vending machine. This one was missing a few drinks and MREs, but mostly full.

He moved to the next vending machine, number three out of five.

So, what made Kanoff and Da Vega any different from just about anybody else he'd worked with for the past four years?

Respect, or something like it, maybe. There had been others; Sergeant Barnes, Lieutenant Demarest, Private Downey. Kanoff and Da Vega, however, were different. Less serious, the kind of people you go barcrawling with, rather than debating the finer points of morality.

Montag picked up the Knife with his right hand and plunged it into the vending machine, slowly cutting a long arc.

Blood started seeping from the slash, slowly running down the front of the vending machine in bright red rivulets.

Unmoved, Montag gazed at the crimson stains, and then reached out and dipped a finger in it, rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb. It was still warm, running all over his hand and soaking into his fingerprints.

Montag kept cutting, opening a hole in the plastic. The flap fell of, flopping onto the small pool of blood on the ground.

Air wafted out of the vending machine. It smelled like a charnel, a musty charnel. Montag ignored the smell and reached inside. He knew it was all in his head.

Montag groped around in the hole, searching for the mechanism he'd triggered earlier. With a click, he unlocked the vending machine door and pulled his arm out of the hole.

Montag stared at his arm. It was completely covered in the blood. The blood matted down his fatigues, stained his skin a dark crimson. He could actually feel the warmth of the living liquid, the sticky sweetness of it drying on his skin. His eyes drifted from his bloody arm, and he stood transfixed by what was in the now-open vending machine.

There were no MREs, no drinks. A body leaned against the machinery, its chest in tatters. A full clip of needlers had ripped the flesh off, shattered the bones. Rib splinters were sticking out of pulped lungs, and the lacerated intestines had spilled out of the ruptured stomach.

The face was intact, the eyes and the mouth frozen in a mask of horror, shock at the betrayal. The skin was a pasty white from the blood loss, slowly turning gray. The fatigues were soaked in blood, but the Lieutenant stripes on the arms were still visible, barely.

Montag blinked.

It was all gone. There was no body. His hand was bloody, however, from a cut on one of his knuckles. He must have cut it when he reached in the vending machine.

As Montag rubbed the cut and gazed at the space where the corpse had been, his normally stoic features twitched.

An observant bystander would have said that he was almost smiling.

* * *

**Starboard Cafeteria Kitchen, 0930 Hours**

The kitchen wasn't all that impressive, really.

It was as big as the cafeteria, and most of it was devoted to storage. Stacks of MREs were kept at five degrees Celsius in refrigerated compartments. There was easily enough here to keep the ship fed for a year.

However, it was impossible to keep a crew working on MREs alone. That probably ran against the Geneva Convention, as the joke went. Ergo, there were freezers and storage closets for the fresh dinners that the Navy crew ate for dinner. Of course, along with the fresh dinners came a small kitchen with several ovens and deep fat fryers.

Still, Da Vega claimed that she'd seen bigger soup kitchens on her home planet.

As she and Kanoff went from MRE rack to MRE rack, Kanoff drove the small tote-jack they'd found while she picked up fifty kilo cartons of rations and stacked them on the device.

Kanoff looked over at some of the refrigerated goods that they were ignoring. The Brass didn't want to deal with perishable items, which meant that a lot of the refrigerated food, mostly meat, would get left behind. It seemed like a waste, and the pair had plans of heating up a piece of GI steak before leaving.

Kanoff let go of the tote jack, which looked like a hybrid between a push lawnmower and a baby forklift. It slowly ground to a halt.

"How about one last one?"

Da Vega heaved another carton onto the stack. At ten cartons high, it probably wasn't a good idea to pile any more on.

Kanoff touched the handlebars, and the jack started moving forward. Da Vega didn't follow. She just stared at him with an exasperated look on her face.

"Morris said that this was the last load we needed, right?"

Kanoff nodded.

"'cept the convoy ain't here yet, so we don't have to take this last load out." The mischievous glint in her eye intensified. "Ya think they got something worth eating around here?"

Kanoffs eyes darted over to the refrigerated section as his mouth started to salivate.

"Yes…" he said as they walked over. "I'd say they probably do."

They both pulled out their guns and switched the flashlights on. Through the panes of frosty glass, they could see boxes of meat and veggies on the other side.

Kanoff opened one of the doors and pulled out a large box of chicken tenders.

"How does this sound?"

Da Vega pouted. "I thought you liked dark meat…"

"Wait, what?" Kanoff had been caught completely off guard by the double entandre.

She just laughed and grabbed a large bag of French fries. "Sounds fine to me."

As they carried the food out towards the kitchen that they hoped would work, Da Vega saw something else in the freezers and dropped the bag.

"Screw this. Let's have lunch later."

* * *

The twins steered the jack into one of the corners.

The food stacked out in the cafeteria was sufficient for one month, and had drained about half of the kitchen. All of the food on the Pillar of Autumn was sufficient to keep the crew fed for at least a year and a half. But with the Marines out of cyro, things got consumed faster. In fact, it would take the convoy two trips to haul it all off.

As the electric motor died down, June heard somebody talking, and a strange scraping sound.

"Oh, God, that tastes good!"

"C'mon, don't hog it all!"

"You had some already!"

"Not as much as you!"

The twins rounded the corner on one of the aisles, and saw Kanoff and Da Vega. And what they were eating.

"You pigs!" June shouted. Seriously; eating it right out of the bucket?

Da Vega looked up, licking some chocolate from her upper lip.

"Get a spoon and help us eat this," she exclaimed, indicating the five-liter bucket of ice cream.

Liz ran off to the kitchen, but June just shook her head. Of course, she was going to have some, but she was going to nag them for it first. It was what she did best.

"What about lunch? You're going to spoil your appetite."

"Yes. And we intend to have a good time doing it," Kanoff replied this time, licking his spoon.

Liz returned, throwing June a spoon and digging in herself.

The bucket of ice cream was passed around for the next few minutes. June, after a few bites, changed her mind and picked up the food Kanoff and Da Vega had forgotten about.

"I'm going to see if the ovens still work. Anybody want some? Going to be the last decent meal you get for a while."

Her sister nodded, and June walked off.

Kanoff started scraping up the bottom of the bucket.

"So…" Da Vega said, trying to strike up a conversation. "What was that right here?"

She tapped her wrist. June had a partial tattoo there, as if she'd gone in to get it started, but hadn't gotten it completely done.

Liz looked over at the other end of the room, where June was cursing at the oven.

"Well, after our first engagement, we decided the ODSTs was more at our speed. Spend less than seventy-two hours in combat, go for weeks between engagements, and you get more armor. After a few months of training, I scrubbed out, and she got herself in, barely. She was planning on dropping out so we could stick to the same platoon, and she made the mistake of telling people about it."

Everyone knew what was coming next. The ODSTs may be elite, but they had also institutionalized the art of being arseholes.

"I suppose they didn't like losing a cadet because of me, especially without the cadet even going into combat." Liz mused, thoughtfully rubbing her mouth. "A few of them kinda held a blanket party for us. Later, a couple of privates admitted that they jumped us, and got their lumps for it."

She shrugged. "I guess they had to confess. When you grow up with five brothers, you learn to fight back, and they had a couple of bruises that proved they were there that night."

"And that was it?" Kanoff asked.

"Not entirely," She flashed the impish grin she was known for. "Before we transferred, we spent five minutes in their Commandant's HEV with a soldering gun. I don't think it would have kept him from fighting, but he would've been removed from the gene pool."

Da Vega shook her head at the story. "That's not how you're supposed to do it. You're supposed to smear Burn Gel all over the inside of their armor. They can't drop without it, and they can't take it off in the field."

Liz laughed. "What do you think we did to the other guys?"

Liz and Da Vega continued chatting, while Kanoff walked off, following the smell of cooked chicken tenders.

* * *

**Starboard Cafeteria, 0938 Hours**

Montag dropped the last of the MREs into one of the bins, and stopped as he noticed that one was smeared with blood. Montag picked it up, examining the red streak, and noticed that his finger was bleeding again. He wiped the blood off on the brown package of the MRE, and pulled a bottle of superglue out of his pocket. A dab of the clear liquid, and Montag felt it drying, sealing the skin together.

Montag went back to work, pulling the bin full of MREs to the center of the room. Here, there were more bins, crates of MREs and, for the sake of variety, a few canned or non-perishable items from the kitchen.

A loud tapping from one of the doors echoed throughout the cafeteria. Morris was immediately on the radio.

"Retrieval, is that you?"

"Yeah, this is Retrieval Team Bravo. Open the door, and you guys get your ticket home."

The door was unlocked, and a slightly blank sergeant walked in, followed by a Warthog slowly being driven through the door. The smaller crates were thrown into the back, and Sierra squad went to work.

"Do you have any room for casualties?" Morris asked. He hoped this sergeant would be more co-operative than the last guy.

"Room for plenty," the sergeant affirmed with a slightly vacant grin. "Would've brought a few troop hogs, but those babies don't seem to be on the equipment roster."

"That and everything else." Morris muttered, slightly put off by the sergeant's jovial attitude.

The sergeant laughed jovially. "Except for the Prozac."

Ahh. That would explain things.

"Just get this squad the Hell outta here."

"What, you don't like it around here?"

Morris sighed. He needed some rest. "It's not that I _hate_ it around here. But for the last few hours, all we've been doing is running up and down dark halls, dodging ambushes, and waiting for you guys to show up. It's starting to get boring!"

The sergeant laughed. "Keep your pants on, we're getting you outta here."

* * *

Montag reclined in the passenger seat of a Warthog. After so many tours in the Marine Corps, he was sure that his back had molded itself to fit the seats in most military vehicles.

The vehicle shook, and Montag saw the twins getting in the back. June went for the turret, while Liz just sat down with her legs dangling over the edge.

"Thank God, we're getting out of this rat's nest."

That was a statement that Montag could drink to. Unfortunately, he'd been unable to find any hard liquor in the kitchen.

Kanoff and Da Vega ran up, climbing over the trailer and into the back of the Warthog. There was some shifting around, and Da Vega ended up sitting in the front of the trailer, while Kanoff and Liz just sat in back of the Warthog.

As soon as he was settled in, Kanoff pulled out a two-liter bucket of ice cream.

"Anybody want some mint & chocolate chip? Speak now, or forever hold your peace."

"Ugh," June groaned. "You guys are going to kill yourselves."

"How about you, Gui? Ya want some?"

Montag thought over it. Why the hell not?

"Sure," he said, digging in one of his pockets for his Swiss Army knife.

* * *

**Hangar, 1016 hours**

The convoy pulled into the hangar where the Marines had been not three hours before.

Much had changed. What had once been a formless stack of crates was now a large assortment of ammo and supplies, sorted into aisles and orderly stacks. There were lines of Warthogs, some waiting to get near the supplies, some waiting to drop stuff off, and more going outside and parking, makeshift trailers in tow.

As the Warthog drew close with the supplies, the Marines dismounted and started loading more supplies onto the Warthog. It was quickly filled to capacity, and moved on out to the lines leading out of the hangar. The Marines stayed behind, sticking themselves with loading duty.

"So, how're you suckers doing?"

Jonesy ran up, hauling a strange cross between a gun and a multi-tool.

"Probably not as well as you're doing," Liz answered.

"That's right! I get to stick it out in the sun and fresh air, while you slackers chug it along in dark hallways."

Liz's smile widened slightly.

"Hey, at least we earned our keep."

Jonesy cracked open a bottle of water, drinking it down as fast as he could.

"Oh, trust me. Y'all are going to thank me when the Covenant attack. We aren't going to need to worry about Banshees ruining our…" Jonesy trailed off. He pointed a finger at June, who was on all fours, reaching between two crates.

"What's she doin'?" he asked. Liz just shrugged.

"Hey June! What're you doing?" she shouted.

June backed out from between the crates and stood up. Her hands had fine red scratch marks on them, and they heard a hissing coming from where she was standing.

"There's a friggin' cat in there!"

Jonesy and Liz walked over and looked between the crates. Sure enough, there was a small tabby in there, ears flat against its skull and missing some hair.

"What the hell's a cat doing in here?" Liz asked. Jonesy just shrugged. He leaned in and reached between the crates.

"Here kitty kitty kitty! Come to daddy…"

* * *

**Hangar, 1017 hours**

Dirkens had cornered Montag in the Warthog, and insisted on looking at the shoulder. Montag had relented after a brief argument.

"Right, so talk to me when we get to the base, and we'll see about removing that," Dirkens said, as he was tying on a few more restraints. "In the meantime, apply a few of these for the pain."

Montag looked at the strips of adhesive he'd just been given, vague descendants of the nicotine patch.

"Right," he muttered. "Got anything for hysteria?"

Dirkens was confused. Before he could ask for clarification, Montag pointed over his shoulder.

There, among the aisles of crates, cartons, and supplies, the twins were leaning on each other and laughing fit to burst. At their feet was Jonesy, writhing around and trying to pull a cat off of his face.

* * *

**Pelican (Hotel-798), 1020 Hours  
**

"From what the twins told me, sir, the cat jumped out and latched itself onto Jonesy's chest. When he tried to pull it off, it buried its claws into his shoulder and neck."

Sergeant Morris leaned against the Pelican and sighed. It was hot already, just past ten o'clock. The Ring, however, seemed to follow a 29 hour day. So, it was probably best to say that it was past mid-morning.

"And what's your opinion?" he asked.

"Quite bluntly, Private Jonesy was overreacting." Dirkins said.

Morris shot a look back into the Pelican. A haggard-looking Jonesy was sitting in the front, rubbing antiseptic into his cuts, while the twins sat across from him, fighting over an equally traumatized cat.

Morris shook his head. That cat had survived a Covenant boarding, a Ring-shaking crash landing, twelve hours of Covenant occupation, and then an encounter with Jonesy.

Morris briefly entertained the idea of giving that cat some armor and an assault rifle.

Kanoff and two other Marines jumped down from the Pelican, where they'd been attaching the cargo. As soon as they confirmed that it was secured, Morris ordered everyone on board. People boarded the Pelican, threaded their way through the crates in the middle of the floor, and buckled up.

Weighed down by several tons of cargo, the Pelican slowly rose into the air and flew off towards CB Beta.

* * *

**Pelican (Hotel-798), 1025 Hours**

Jonesy reached out to one of the open cartons and picked up an MRE. He turned it over in his hands, looking for the 'tear here' line.

He blanched. One side of the brown paper was covered in streaks of dried blood. The MRE was quickly exchanged for another.

Montag powered down his HMD and leaned back against the seat, letting the Pelican rock him to sleep. It was always like this after an assignment or a mission. He'd worked his butt off, dodged death several times, and came away with more than his fair share of injuries. When you left, you left the danger behind, and it was safe to sleep. Even if the Pelican could be shot down, there wasn't jack he could do about it.

Montag could feel his mind slowing down. Vaguely, he mulled over the issue of Kanoff and Da Vega. He mentally ticked them off as people he could respect, but not quite friends. That was good enough; respect was a rare commodity these days.

As he drifted off, he saw the wreck of the Pillar of Autumn retreating into the distance…

* * *

_Strange things happened during war. In mechanized warfare, there were distinct places that could accurately be called the 'front lines'. However, when the main force is the infantry, these lines would overlap, become hazy and confused._

_Montag wondered if the outpost was behind enemy lines. In 2x zoom, he slowly panned the distant treeline. The civvies back at Woodworth Bridge were constantly badgering Sergeant Clancy for status reports, and the tension was trickling down. Never mind the fact that they'd just got here._

_Montag loaded the Rifle with explosive bullets and tweaked the settings on the scope, paying close attention to the readout. Beside him, Kantorek set up the tripod with the binoculars. The old Sniper-Spotter team, pioneered by the Germans in the Second World War._

_He sighted on a target at five hundred meters, squinting through the holographic HMD into the optical readout on the scope. A measured pull of the trigger and the rifle bucked. The target, a patch of dirt, exited the screen on the scope shot upwards._

"_Hit," Kantorek muttered, squinting through the binoculars._

_Montag wondered whether he should remind Kantorek to speak English, instead of their Ger-Russian dialect. Instead, he jotted down the scope settings in his laptop, also recording windage, temperature, relative humidity, and the elevation that he'd fired from. Given the same conditions, that was the scope setting he'd use for 500 meters._

"_Do we have a target at one klick?" he asked.  
_

_Kantorek pressed the 20x zoom on the binoculars and started searching._

"_Yeah," he said. "I'm seeing a white rock, about the size of a case of vodka."_

"_Don't talk like that. You'll only make yourself thirsty."_

_Montag set the scope for a one kilometer shot, and then made a slight adjustment for the twenty degree (Centigrade) weather. Sighting through the scope, Montag found the rock, and then checked the grass, making a rough estimate of the windspeed._

_Montag zoomed back to the rock and aimed slightly to the right, compensating for the estimated four KPH windspeed. He pulled the trigger._

"_Miss; one meter too low," Kantorek said. "Besides, by the time you did fire, they would have killed us."_

"_You're kidding me. They wouldn't see us if we had the entire Gjorky Dance Troupe doing the cancan up here."_

_Montag had sighted on the rock again, made a slight adjustment, and then fired in between breaths._

"_Hit!"_

_Montag scribbled down the data. If they had time, they'd test more settings for 300 meters and 750 meters._

"_Gui, schau!"_

_Montag looked through the scope at the rock he'd just shot. A strange simian alien, clad in yellow armor with a tank-like thing on back, waddled up to the rock and looked at the divot made by the explosive bullet. The alien (They were identified as 'Grunts' during boot camp) then looked up at the sky, as if searching for what had made the crater._

_This was too good of a chance not to take. Montag sighted slightly to the right and above the Grunt, and then pulled the trigger slowly._

"_Hit! Caught that sucker by surprise!" Kantorek shouted before Montag could sight on the Grunt again. It was lying facedown, probably with a large chest wound._

_Thirty seconds later, as Montag was still studying the dead Grunt, another waddled out of the treeline, around the rock, and found its dead comrade._

_Montag had already reloaded with the standard ammo. Aiming a little closer than the last time, he pulled the trigger again._

"_Hit! How stupid can these greasebags get?!"_

_Montag was about to reply when Kanotrek started speaking excitedly._

"_Is that what I think it is!?"_

_Something else began moving in the trees. Another alien, this one tall and reptilian, walked over to the rock. A friggin' Elite._

_As soon as it saw the Grunts, the blue-clad alien dropped into a crouch and ran back toward the trees. Montag fired. Remembering that the Elites had some sort of energy shield, he made a guess at the corrections required for firing through air disturbed by a previous bullet and fired again._

"_Holy crap, you just killed that thing!" Kantorek breathed._

_Montag barely heard him radio Clancy and report in. He was still looking at the fresh bodies lying so far away, at the alien blood draining from their bodies and staining the grass._

_He'd just made his first three kills at one kilometer, with his best friend watching. Life didn't get any better than this._

* * *

_**A/N:**_** And they're finally escaping from the Pillar of Autumn**

**I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I had to puzzle my way out of a Deja-Vu maze generated by the Autumn's Slipspace Drive. After that, I had to fight an epic battle against my computer, selling my soul and left kidney to just so it would upload this chapter.**

**Well, in other news, I was talking to a National Guard recruiter at the Job Fair yesterday (General Dynamics was there too), and I couldn't help but notice that his tag read 'Corporal Morris'. I wonder if he's getting promoted anytime soon... **

**Don't forget to R&R. And I don't mean Rest and Recuperate.  
**


	17. A Little Defensive

**You'd think that Snipers are selected for few criteria; marksmanship, and maybe a knack for stealth. But when you sit down and talk to them, you're surprised about what they can do. Hell, most of them should be officers with what they know, but the UNSC ain't using them to their full potential, unsurprisingly.**

**Montag was telling me about the Scout-Sniper program they had on Siberia Prime, and I'm wondering why we ain't doing that.**

**Corporal David Zamorro**

* * *

**Command Base Beta, Outer Perimeter, 1230 hours**

The arm extended and then rotated, the muscles tensing and the fingers flexing. The wrist worked back and forth, and then the arm picked up a pair of binoculars from the backpack sitting by Montag.

Montag's left arm was still stiff, and the shoulder was still sore, but Dirkens had told him it was alright to take off the restraints and start using it, so long as he didn't do any heavy lifting. Montag didn't plan on it. Dislocated shoulders hurt like hell.

Montag pressed the binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the valley. Command base Beta was situated on a circular plateau about two square kilometers in area. There were three land bridges that hooked up to the plateau from adjacent hills, spanning over a moat-like river over a hundred meters below.

So far, Montag liked it. Defensible, plenty of cover, plenty of places to hide. Scenery was nice too.

Montag dropped the binoculars and sighed. Cupping his hands, he dipped his hands into the stream in front of him and splashed water on his face, letting the cool liquid dribble down his arms.

"So, what do you think?"

Montag flipped the HMD back down over his right eye and turned around. Behind him was the Warthog, with Kanoff and Da Vega in it. All throughout the shallow valley, Marines were picking their way through foliage, getting familiar with the terrain, identifying hardpoints and useful features for ambushes.

"Well," Montag said, starting off on an answer to Kanoff's question. "We had eight P-D cannons delivered, which means that it would be suicide for the Covenant to mount anything but an all-out aerial assault, something I doubt they have the current resources for. It'll only take one skirmish for them to realize that, after which we'll probably be dealing with a ground assault over the land bridges. Right here, we have the defensive advantage for the next forty-eight hours, at the least."

In one smooth motion, Montag slid into the passenger seat of the Warthog, carefully leaning the Rifle against the dashboard.

"However, it'll take another twelve hours for the Engineers to finish modding the cannons, after which they'll still have to move them to the designated sites. That's definitely enough time for the Covenant to mount an effective assault, but only if they stop wasting manpower on our position at the PoA. Ergo, we can expect one initial aerial attack, and then a second one depending on how fast they can move around. After that, we'll mainly be fighting ground forces, depending on our supply of ammunition for the P-Ds"

As Montag dug into his backpack and passed a pack of cigarettes around, Kanoff and Da Vega were listening intently. Of course, he'd passed beyond the parameters of the original question, but his analysis was interesting nonetheless.

"The Covenant always have something up their sleeve, but they're fighting with a limited selection of outdated vehicles; Ghosts, Banshees, and Wraiths, from what we've seen. Ergo, I doubt they'll be able to surprise us too badly. On the other hand, they have the advantage of reinforcements and numbers, while we are fighting with limited resources and manpower."

Montag mentally corrected himself as he lit his lighter. The Covenant weren't fighting with obsolete vehicles. The vehicles didn't have boosting or other features, which Montag could always remember them having. Did that mean that they were 'toned down' for wargames or non-warzone duties, or were they simply obsolete, as with the weapons?

"Umm…" Kanoff ventured. "I mean, what do you think of this site?"

"Oh," Montag muttered as he gave the valley another look. It was about fifty meters wide, with gentle hills and terraces on each side, rising twelve meters above the valley floor. Pine trees and some type of undergrowth grew moderately spaced. The stream Montag had been fooling around in was just over ankle deep, flowing from a hole in the upper part of the Mountain that CB Beta was in.

"Definitely a good place for an ambush, after a few nests are dug. On the other hand, the whole valley is within range of Wraiths, which can be parked on the other side of the canyon. Ergo, I'll give it a C plus."

Silence returned to the Warthog, and all three of them thought of something to keep the conversation going. They'd have to help build defensive positions within a few minutes, and talking was better than sitting around doing nothing.

"So, do you always think that far ahead?"

Montag nodded. You had to think that far ahead. You were toast if you didn't. Admittedly, he rarely was able to do this good of an analysis on it, and he never babbled on about defenses and tactics like a university professor.

* * *

A lieutenant started gathering a few squads together and started outlining the defensive emplacements he wanted. Nothing major, just nests and barricades. Something to hide in, something to keep from getting hit by the plasma. Camouflage netting would have to be strung up, and the Twins were dispatched to survey the hill on the other side of the land bridge.

Montag, Kanoff and Da Vega, being the only ones around with an available Warthog, were tasked with building the barricade behind which Warthogs and a Scorpion could hide. The Lieutenant was even kind enough to point out the exact trees he wanted taken down.

Kanoff drove the Warthog off thirty meters from one of the trees, and Montag dismounted. Unwinding the winch in front, Montag pulled out as much line as he could get, and then dragged it over to the tree.

He hefted the hook, getting a feel for how heavy it was, and then threw it as hard as he could upwards. It got caught in the foliage and hooked on a branch eight meters up, and Montag had to pull it back down. A second try, and the line went around the trunk and the hook dropped to the ground. Montag wrapped the hook around the line, and signaled Da Vega to wind up the winch and get out of the way.

When she was done, Kanoff put the Warthog in reverse and stomped on the pedal. The line snapped taught and the tree groaned, but otherwise stayed put.

Montag picked up a plasma rifle he'd taken from beneath the passenger seat and walked around to the other side of the fir tree. Aiming carefully for the middle of the trunk, about two-thirds of a meter above the ground, he squeezed the trigger. The plasma bolt penetrated a half-meter into the trunk, cremated the wood it touched and flash boiled the water inside. The affected wood exploded, blowing hot ash over the ground and leaving a hole about as wide as Montag's fist.

As Kanoff kept driving the Warthog backwards, Montag backed up and kept firing into the trunk. He had a sizable cut after half a dozen shots, and the trunk cracked, falling towards the Warthog with a Ring-shuddering crash.

One down, one more to go.

* * *

Five minutes later, Da Vega stood by the driver's seat of the Warthog, looking at both of the downed trees. They'd been pulled down so that they crossed each other at 120 degrees, forming an arrow-shaped barricade pointed at the land bridge. Beyond the barricade were ten meters of trees and some undergrowth, and then twenty meters of open ground before the canyon.

"How much do you think we can hide behind the barricade?"

Kanoff shrugged and cut the idling engine. "At least a Scorpion and three Warthogs."

Montag, dusted with a layer of fine ash, walked up and leaped into the passenger's seat.

"If we're smart about the spacing," he said. "We can get two Scorpions and four Warthogs in there. However, I doubt we're getting enough tanks to man all three sites and keep some at the base with that number, so let's figure for one Scorpion."

"Now," Montag continued after pulling out a bottle of water and taking a long drink from it. "To keep the vehicles and guns properly hidden, we're going to have to spread camouflage netting over the trees and dig ditches behind the barricade."

"The trenches are going to have to be deep enough to hide the vehicles, but will also have to let the vehicles drive back out. The Warthogs will require ramps set up to climb over the barricade, and then ramps set up to get back over. If I were the Lieutenant, I'd make that second set of ramps retractable, and then bury Lotus ATMs on the other side, just to give those Ghost drivers something to think about."

"Wait," Da Vega pointed out. "If we only have one Scorpion, they're probably going to have more than one Wraith."

Kanoff nodded. "Right. Which means that the Scorpion is going to have to haul arse, after a few shots. We'll give it some room behind the barricade to maneuver. Maybe cut down some trees so it can move back and forth, but that'll cut down on camouflage."

"Well, we can always rely on our Banshees to provide air cover, right? Fourteen birds back at the base ain't nothing to sneeze at."

Montag twisted the cap back on the canteen and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"True. Except that the Banshees don't do so well strafing through trees. Sure, the Wraiths are going to have to blast a hole in the canopy to fire on us, but the rest of the xenos can stay back in the brush and pick off the Banshees with Fuel rods and who knows what the hell else."

The cigarettes were again offered to Kanoff and Da Vega, an offer they took him up on.

"That, and when you consider the fact that the base is going to retain four or five Banshees for a mobile force or defense, that means there's only three Banshees per bridge. That's three Banshees going up against… let's say five Wraiths."

Da Vega gagged on the smoke when she heard that last sentence.

"FIVE Wraiths? Don't you think that's a little excessive?"

Montag sucked on the cigarette, giving Da Vega a cold, hard look through his HMD.

"Maybe you two were too busy necking in the lifeboat when we came down," he scoffed. "I don't know what you were seeing up there, but I know I saw multiple capital ships swarming over the Autumn like flies on a carcass. Now, if you don't think they'll drop the hammer on us with everything they have, be my guest, but get the hell out of my way. _Comprende_?"

"How'd you get to be the local chess grandmaster?" Kanoff shot back. "You get kicked out of officer's school or something?"

Montag yanked a plasma pistol out from underneath his seat and jumped out of the Warthog. He walked up to the fallen trees and began firing at the limbs, shooting off the brush so it wouldn't catch fire later.

Da Vega ground the cigarette under her heel and pulled a shovel out of the Warthog. "Touchy, huh?"

Kanoff shrugged. "I don't know. I think he's warming up to us."

* * *

"Right here?" June asked.

Liz shook her head and motioned with her hand. "Further back, two meters."

June complied, walking away and striking a posture that she hoped didn't look posed. Liz raised the camera, made a few suggestions, and then snapped a picture.

They were on the land bridge between the Plateau and one of the hills. Liz, being an amateur photographer who carried a camera wherever she went, had wanted to document as much as she could about the events on the Ringworld. The land bridge had offered a rather dramatic landscape that Liz couldn't wait to capture.

She pressed a button, and the lens adjusted for a wide angle shot. She clicked away, getting as many photos as she could for a panoramic.

"You didn't make me look bad this time, did you?"

"Since when have I ever done that?" Liz asked with an injured tone that almost sounded sincere.

"Remember my first time in a Drop Pod?"

"You didn't honestly think that I wouldn't take that shot, did you?"

"I don't know how you could have taken that shot without preparation."

This was old territory between them, and Liz knew to avoid it. "Can I have your opinion? Which would look better, a three-sixty horizontal, or a panoramic that follows the Ring?"

June looked to the "West", where the Ring slowly rose into the sky like a highway to Heaven, arcing over their heads and then coming back down behind them. The stars glittered in the sky due to the thinner atmosphere, and the planet they orbited around was completely visible, fading away only at the darker side.

"The Ring," she said. "Definitely the Ring."

* * *

**Hangar, 1710 hours**

The Hangar had been transformed since Montag had last been there.

Most of the vehicles were still there, minus a few Warthogs and the Pelicans, which were still hauling in supplies. The vehicles remaining, however, were pushed as close to the walls as possible, to make room for welding equipment and fabrication machinery.

Dominating the center of the hangar were the point-defense cannons, with coaxial framework halfway constructed around them. The hydraulics and sensor mounts had yet to be installed.

It was under one of these that Montag had found and confronted Jonesy.

"You want three of those made!?" Jonesy exclaimed.

Montag nodded. "Are you going to have enough time to do that?" He had to speak loudly to be heard over the plasma torches and welders.

"Yeah. But what's in it for me?" Jonesy asked. This was supposed to be an attempt at a joke. Montag didn't have all that much of a sense of humor, however.

Montag shoved Jonesy back against the cannon framework, pulled out the Handgun and aimed it squarely at Jonesy's forehead, flipping off the safety. All in one smooth move.

"Alright! I'll do it!" Jonesy shouted.

Montag holstered the Handgun and backed off.

"Crap!" Jonesy gasped. "Is that your argument for everything?"

Montag shrugged. "You can't say that it doesn't work. That stuff will be ready by tomorrow, no?"

Jonesy thought over it. Fabrication of the casing and the liner was a pretty straightforward process, and so was the shaping of the high explosive. Child's play, really. It just took some time.

"Yeah," he said. "Pick it up before your shift tomorrow."

Montag nodded and started to walk off.

"Hey!" Jonesy yelled over the zapping of the welders. "One question!"

Montag turned around.

"What d'ya think of these?" Jonesy asked, gesturing at the point-defense cannons.

Montag looked up at the towering autocannons. "On the whole, I'd rather have half a dozen Lanzers behind me."

"Yeah, right," Jonesy laughed. If wishes were fishes, they'd all cast nets. "Like we're getting any of those out here."

Montag shrugged.

"So, about the Lanzers," Jonesy shouted, trying to be heard. "Where were you stationed with those? Which campaign?"

Montag gave Jonesy a blank stare, and then walked off to the bunk rooms. He had sentry duty at midnight.

* * *

**Bunk Room, 1720 hours**

Montag took thirty seconds to rearrange his bunk. The seatbacks that were intended to be used as a mattress were moved up, to be used as pillows. A fire blanket served to soften the hard floor.

Next, Montag's armor was removed. The breastplate was set on the ground, and the various leggings and power packs were unstrapped and laid on it. Finally, the HMD was powered down and the helmet was laid on top of the pile.

Keeping his right eye closed, Montag laid down on the ground and pulled out the XBook. Scrolling through a list of books, Montag looked for something to read. Something, anything to take his mind off his problems.

For once in Montag's life, things had changed. The battlefield had narrowed to one single Ringworld. Variables had been reduced, possible scenarios narrowed.

Chess was more like War than people realized, or would care to admit. Right now, Montag could picture the board, with all the pieces set and ready to go. The Covenant had the initiative, would take the first move. The Black player.

Unlike usual, however, Montag couldn't just see all the possible opening moves. He saw the moves that _would_ be taken, if only because those moves were the only ones that could be taken. To some degree, he'd already discussed this with Kanoff and Da Vega.

The Covenant owned the Ring, owned the board. They could afford to spend all their resources on Offense. White couldn't, simple as that.

Montag could see the plays, right up to the point where White's defenses were worn down by Black's onslaught. Then it was gray. He couldn't visualize anything after that. Anything goes. Thousands of possibilities.

Montag knew how it would end, though. There was no way off this ring, and no way to be rescued. If he played his cards right, he could conceivably last for a month, tops. For the first time, however, death was a certainty, not an outcome.

What was he supposed to do? Fight to the last bullet, keep killing out of spite? Quietly go kill himself? Pray to some God he hadn't cared about in years, and beg forgiveness for acts he couldn't care less about?

Think about her?

Montag slammed the Xbook shut and lay down, trying to purge his racing mind.

What was he to do?

* * *

_Montag decided that Slipspace itself was cold._

_Three separate trips into Slipspace, and he felt he had enough experience to justify this decision. In Realspace, the ship was warm, or at least normal room temperature. Once it entered Slipspace, the heat would fade away, slowly, and it would remain that way._

_The Crew seemed to be acclimated to it. Most of the Marines, on the other hand, weren't. Only about a third of the Marines were from Siberia Prime, and they weren't having any problems. When the planet you come from is an over-industrialized ball of snow, ice and rock that laughs at every attempt to terraform it, you learn to value warmth, but also to tolerate the lack of it._

_Right now, the glow from his Xbook screen was enough to keep him warm. He'd been passing the time by typing out an E-mail to Vera. Three pages long, and now it only needed the ship to come out of Slipspace to be sent._

_Now, Montag was going back over the letter, erasing the stuff likely to be censored and correcting typos._

_Then a beer can landed in his lap and soaked his pants, sending chips of ice flying all over.  
_

"_Drink up!" Kantorek said in Russian, rolling into his bunk. He already had his open, and probably half drunk._

"_Where did you get this?" Montag asked. Alcohol was, like cigarettes, banned from the UNSC's Warships. At least, banned from everywhere but storage._

"_The Americans. I get them a heater, and they give me a case of this stuff. They think they're freezing to death."_

"_You do know what happens if we get caught with this stuff, right?"_

"_Yeah. Being my closest friend, I thought you'd help me destroy the evidence of my crimes," Kantorek shot back, before taking a long sip from the can._

_It's hard to argue with that kind of logic. Montag cracked open the lid and drained the contents._

_They were silent for the next few moments, alone in the bunk room. The Marines had been left alone over the past two days with nothing to do, but Montag and Kantorek had somehow not been able to talk to each other. Kantorek was the first one to break the ice, to talk about what they would eventually have to talk about.  
_

"_That was quite the fireworks show, huh?"_

_Montag sighed. "You know, I wondered why we were rushing to get off that planet. Now I know…"_

"_Yeah. How the Hell are we supposed to fight against something that can glass entire planets? I sure as Hell didn't sign up for this."_

_Montag closed the laptop and lay back on his bunk. "I don't know…If we don't fight, who will?"_

"_If we don't then there's half a trillion other human beings who can do it. I'm wondering what it would be like if we never joined up. I'm starting to think about that, and this is only my fourth month."_

_Montag decided not to point out that Kantorek was missing Montag's point. "If that were true, then I'd be studying to be an engineer, and maybe I'd get Vera to marry me. You'd be a machinist or a maintenance specialist, and maybe you'd go beyond one-night stands."_

"_However," he continued, speaking what was on his mind. "How many years would it take for the Covenant to find Siberia Prime? What do we do then?"_

"_Damned if we do, damned if we don't, huh?" Kantorek sighed and threw the beer can at a trash bin. He rolled back on his bunk and faced the wall, leaving himself to his thoughts._

"_Look on the bright side, buddy. This way, we have a chance of surviving, right?"_

_Kantorek snorted. He'd seen what the Covenant had done. He'd seen their cruisers park themselves in the upper atmosphere. He'd seen them blast the surface again and again and again until the shroud of Slipspace had covered the ship._

_After that, Montag's last words were a lot harder to believe._

* * *

**Bunk Room, 2330 hours**

Sergeant Morris stole into the bunk room, making slightly less sound than a mouse blinking. This was one of the parts of command he enjoyed: waking up the Marines in the God-forsaken hours of the night for less than pleasant duties. In this case, he was getting the Marines up for sentry duty. At midnight. He started at the Rutherford twins' bunks.

Walking up silently, he gave both bunks a swift kick, waking up the occupants.

"Rise and shine, sweeties," he said as he moved over to his next victim, ignoring the unladylike curses being directed his way.

None of the other Marines budged. All sound asleep, exhausted. The cat, (Or Junior, as the Twins were calling it) did look up. Loosing a warm and comfortable sleeping place between the twins, he trotted over the Jonesy and snuggled up close.

The next Marine selected for duty was a few bunks down. Morris slunk up on him and heard something weird. Peering at the Marine, he noticed the Marine was listening to wireless earbuds. At the Marines side was one of those XPhones Morris had seen around, but had always thought of as 'too gimmicky' to buy.

Morris picked up the XPhone and found that the Marine was listening to "Sounds of Nature" from a playlist called "Relaxing". Morris suddenly had a stroke of inspiration. Manipulating the XPhones controls, he scrolled through the music library (1.5 times ten to the sixth power songs, or so he'd heard) until he found the song "In the Flesh".

Clamping his hand over the Marine's mouth, he turned the volume all the way up and pressed the 'play' button. The Marine was instantly awake and silently struggled for the next few seconds, until he saw Morris standing over him.

"Get up, get dressed, and get the hell down to the vehicle bay."

As the Marine nodded and slowly removed his ear buds, Morris moved three beds down, until he reached Montag's bunk. Here was the Pyromaniac; perhaps he deserved something special…

Morris raised his hand over his head. Punching Marines in the stomach was a sure way to get them out of bed and keep them awake, although it hurt slightly. Aw, hell, it hurt MORE than slightly. That's what made it so fun.

Morris slammed his fist down, only to be caught off balance when Montag lashed out and caught Morris's arm.

Montag opened his left eye, and Morris caught a glimpse of... Rage? Fear? Whatever it was, it was gone in an instant.

"I'm awake already."

Morris simply cursed and moved on to the next victim. Montag rolled out of bed and started to dress.

* * *

**Hangar, 2150 hours**

"GOOD MORNING MARINES!" Morris shouted. "WHAT A BEAUTIFUL MORNING TO GET SENTRY DUTY! IF WE AIN'T BUSY PICKING OFF COVIES, WE MAY EVEN GET TO SEE THE SUN RISE!"

The fifteen or so assorted Marines glared back at him sullenly. Many of them were chewing on multiple sticks of caffeine gum to stay alert. Some of them were leaning on Warthogs and dreaming of their bunks.

"NOW YOU _WILL_ FOLLOW THE NAV POINT ON YOUR HUDS TO YOUR POSITIONS AND YOU _WILL_ RELIEVE THE SNIPERS IN POSITION. AND FOR THE NEXT FOUR HOURS, YOU _WILL _WATCH FOR ANY COVIE SCOUTS OR TROOPS. AND IF ANY OF YOU SLACKERS FALL ASLEEP, I _WILL_ COME OUT THERE AND _RAM_ YOUR RIFLES UP YOUR REARS FARTHER THAN YOU THINK IS POSSIBLE_. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!"_

There were general murmurs of assent. Twelve o'clock in the morning is not the time to argue with your commanding officer.

"NOW, I DON'T KNOW, BUT I'VE BEEN TOLD THAT WE _WILL_ BE GETTING A_ FRIENDLY_ VISIT FROM THE HIGHER UPS. THEY _WILL_ BE COMING IN A COVIE DROPSHIP THAT _WILL_ BE LANDING ON THE TARMAC. IF ANY OF YOU FIRE ON IT, I _WILL_ PERSONALLY TEAR YOUR SPINE FROM YOUR BACK AND _WHIP_ YOU TO DEATH WITH IT. NOW _GET_ MOVING!"

The Marines started shuffling out, except for one who had fallen asleep leaning against a Warthog. Morris frowned and walked over. He took the cigarette from his mouth and touched the tip to the back of the Marine's earlobe. The Marine jumped up and screamed.

"GET MOVING DIRTBAG!"

* * *

Montag slowly walked around the edge of the mountain. The mountain's sides were either steep slopes or sheer cliffs, with many ledges. The slopes were moderately forested, and there were many hiding places. Good and bad.

What was disastrous was that he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Normally, he could hit the pillow and quickly catch a few hours of sleep, and then wake up completely refreshed. Last night, however, he'd had trouble sleeping, barely caught any rest.

What was also unusual was that he could usually go for two days or more without sleep or ill effects, but now had trouble functioning, couldn't focus. He'd have to take care of that once he got to his position.

Montag followed his Nav Point to a ledge. Three meters below that ledge was the person he was to relieve. He looked over the side and spotted the Marine. The sentry was lying on his stomach, assault rifle and binoculars at the ready. His ammo was set out in an ordered if inefficient layout, and there was a medpac right next to him. The appearance of a well drilled and alert soldier.

He would, however, look even more alert if he wasn't looking at an old issue of Playboy on his XBook.

Montag scowled, slung the Rifle across his back, and slowly crawled down the cliff, like a spider. He made no sound, moving as a shadow among shadows, and slowly crept up behind the Marine. If the Marine had chosen to look up at the cliff at that particular moment, the only way Montag would be detected is by the red glow from the camera lens on his HMD. The Marine, however, did not look behind him, too enraptured by his Xbook.

Montag was now crawling through the ankle high grass behind the Marine, slowly creeping up on the Marines blindside. The Marine didn't notice Montag, and probably wouldn't notice if the Covenant overran the base.

Montag was now crouched over the Marine.

Montag pulled the Knife out of its sheath and raised it above his head.

There was a pause.

Then the Knife arced down and stabbed into the dirt not an inch from the Marine's nose.

The Marine jumped, rolling to the left while reaching for his sidearm, all while screaming obscenities.

Montag pulled the Knife out of the dirt and slid it into the sheath. The Marine finally pulled his pistol and aimed it at Montag, only to have it yanked out of his hands. The Marine finally got a good look at Montag. Then he started cursing even more.

Montag did something that was halfway between a leer and a grin. "Your shift is up."

"What the Hell's wrong with you? That's friggin' assault! Hope you like-"

"If I were Covenant," Montag snarled. "You would be dead right now. On the bright side, the next generation wouldn't have to suffer from you polluting the gene pool. Now get lost."

The Marine left, taking his weapons and the Xbook, but leaving his ammo and supplies. Montag watched him go, then rearranged the supplies into a better, more efficient and orderly arrangement. Unholstering the Handgun, Montag laid it out next to the medpac.

Still feeling the fatigue clouding his mind, Montag rummaged around in the medical kit until he found a small hypodermic needle. It had a serial number stamped on it, something to be used for surgery. If Montag recalled correctly, it was for raising blood pressure and making the heart beat faster, a good thing if a soldier had lost a lot of blood.

Montag jabbed it into one of the blue veins on his wrist. All he needed to know was that it would wake him up.

Finally, he took out the Knife and started to sharpen it. It wasn't dull; it never dulled. He had carved it from a hunk of ballistic armor. Ceramic knives tended to break less easily, and actually did not dull unless they were actually used. The blade had taken a month of off-duty labor to make, and another month to procure the rare hardwood for the handle. It was, obviously, one of Montag's prized possessions.

* * *

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes passed. Now twenty. Montag had finished sharpening the knife and was using the Scope Display on his HMD to pan the distance for intruders. He was a mere 150 meters to the right of the Entrance, and had a good view of the Tarmac to his left. The Tarmac was actually a level metal platform, a part of the Ringworld's installation, about a meter above the surrounding ground. It was right in front of the Entrance, and no tree grew within fifty meters of it. Other than that clearing and a few roads leading away, the mountain was surrounded by a sea of moderately thick conifers.

His radio crackled. "All sentries, we are about to receive our VIPs. Remember what I said about firing on them."

Montag zoomed out of Scope Mode, then cocked his head. He heard a high pitched whining, like a Covenant vehicle. A second later, he saw a single Covenant dropship appear over the trees and circle the Tarmac. Then it descended and landed. Curious, Montag zoomed in on the dropship to see who was arriving. The hatches on the sides opened, and Montag got two surprises.

The first was in the form of Captain Keyes, who Montag had been told was captured by the Covenant. Montag did not particularly believe this. The Covenant either killed you in combat or killed you outright afterwards, but unless you were a civilian, they never took you captive. And they only took civilians prisoner for recreational slaughter, a pastime that Montag could identify with.

The other surprise was a Spartan.

Montag zoomed in on the Spartan to get a better look. He had the rank of Master Chief emblazoned on his visor. His, or her, movements were… mechanical as it surveyed the Base, and then the Spartan and the other arrivals walked to the entrance.

Montag zoomed out and relaxed, listening to the others over the radio.

"Dude, did I just see what I thought I saw?" someone asked.

"If you saw a Spartan, then we must be having the same hallucination." another person said.

"A Spartan? No way!" a sniper exclaimed.

"He's taller than I thought he would be."

"Aw, he don't look so tough."

"Really?"

"I could take him."

"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is?"

The Spartan and Keyes entered the Base, and the chatter died down. Prompted by the Spartan, Montag's thoughts turned to former battles on faraway planets, now balls of glass and magma… Jericho III… Diogenes… Haven…

Montag reached for an MRE; and then he paused.

Throughout the Ringworld, he had heard the noise of animals. Insects, maybe small mammals or birds, were always chirping away, part of the background noise of every terraformed planet. Eventually, everybody learns to tune it out. However, it was surprising what you could learn from listening to the wildlife, learn about the environment you were in.

And when the wildlife suddenly goes silent, that's when you had to sit up and pay attention.

The insects further down the slope had gone quiet, as if they could smell or hear something threatening. Panning the scenery with his nightvision, Montag couldn't see anything, human or Covenant. He then switched to Infrared.

It took him several more seconds of panning to find it. The night air was cool, giving everything a darkish blue cast, but there was a darker spot moving towards the mountain, flitting from tree to tree. The spot, caused by a cloaking field absorbing more thermal energy than it refracted, walked across the terrace below Montag and seemed to stop where it could survey the tarmac.

Montag, by this time, had picked up the Rifle, drawn a bead, and flicked the safety off. He wouldn't aim for the head; there was no guarantee that he would be able to shoot it there, and these cloaked Elites were a bugger to hunt down when they know you're there.

Besides, one shot would kill it instantly, head or torso.

CRACK!

The fin-stabilized round exited the barrel of the Rifle at over one kilometer per second, crossing the eleven meter gap between the Rifle and the Elite, and tore right through the Elite's torso. For all intents and purposes, the Elite was dead, and the 14mm bullet was buried a full three meters deep in the rocky soil.

The cloaking field quickly faded away, revealing a dead Elite with light blue armor sprawled on the ground. Ironically, Montag saw the Elite's armor as a bright red, probably due to the endothermic action of the cloaking field.

Montag turned on his radio, switching to the HQ frequency.

"Corporal Montag to base."

The radio crackled. "Corporal Montag, please continue."

"I have a Covenant scout at my position."

"Status?"

"Currently assuming ambient temperature."

"Please continue."

"I'm no expert, but we probably have a large Covenant attack coming this way. Maybe it would be a good idea to get everyone alert and out of bed." Montag's voice was laden with sarcasm, but the Techie at the other end of the line didn't seem to notice

"Thank you, over and out."

Montag shut off the radio and started stuffing supplies in his backpack. He already heard another sniper shouting bloody murder on the general frequency, and he knew enough to bugger out to another location. The advantages of being a sniper disappeared when the enemy knew where you were, and a mobile sniper is a live sniper.

He somehow sensed the violation of his personal space before the invisible hand beat him over the head. Something grabbed him and yanked him up by his collar, spinning around to face away from the cliff. Montag found himself looking into the semi-invisible eyes of the Elite, felt the iron-strong hands squeezing his throat.

He already knew that this night wasn't going to end well.

* * *

**A/N: Sorry, but I'll have to end it here. I am also sorry that it took my sorry arse two months to write this chapter up. Even after I got through my Writer's Block, there was a dialog that, no matter how I approached it, would not get off the ground. It might get worked into a later chapter, it might not. In the meantime, I've been working on a Halo Oneshot... be on the lookout for "Oh No, Not Again!"**

**Well... back to the grind... gotta study for the SAT... The AP tests... planning another half-dozen fics...**

**God, I love this. Don't forget to R&R!**


	18. Hand to Hand

**"The truth that many are unwilling to admit is, this war is unlike any we've seen before. For the first time, Humanity is not fighting Humanity, but multiple alien species with advanced technology unlike what we've ever encountered. To be honest, it's no longer a war, but a slaughter."**

**"I find it disturbing that few in the military are willing to admit that we will be seeing new types of mental fatigue in our soldiers, perhaps of a variety only Hugo Wells could have predicted."**

**Dr. Leoniv Yegorov, Doctor of Psychology at the University of Ljodgrad**

* * *

**Command Base Beta, 1230 hours  
Several hundred meters upspin of the Entrance.**

As it was, Montag had little experience with hand-to-hand combat, and very little formal training in it. When it did happen, Montag always engaged in it only long enough to get out a sidearm, except for one unfortunate incident in the Badlands. But this was not an option at the moment, as the Handgun was just below his dangling feet, out of reach.

Acting mostly through instinct, Montag grabbed on to the Elite's arms and swung his legs up, stomping down and delivering a powerful kick to the Elite's hips. At the same time, he leaned back, hoping to force the Elite to let go of him. From there, he could grab the Handgun and…

He felt himself fall backwards, but the Elite hadn't let go. It fell on top of him, crushing him with his legs still jammed against its midsection. He shoved back and felt it tumble off of him, still with a death grip on his shoulders.

He was yanked off the ground by the Elite's grip on him, tumbling over and over.

For a second, as he tussled with the Elite, he felt them falling. They'd rolled over the cliff.

Then there was the impact.

Montag and the Elite hit the ground, with Montag on top and the Elite below, breaking the fall with its back. Something cracked loudly, and Montag doubted it was armor plating.

Montag whipped the Knife out of its sheath and slashed the Elite in the throat, all in one swift move. Then he stabbed again in the same spot, angling the Knife upwards. He was meeting with resistance from the skinsuit that the Elite wore, a very tough polymer akin to a leathery form of Kevlar.

The Elite recovered from the impact, grabbing and twisting the Knife out of Montag's hands and then it backhanded him. A simple swipe, but with the Elite's strength it felt like the sky had fallen on Montag's head. Montag's helmet flew off, and he was exposed.

The Elite grappled Montag's face with both hands and squeezed, it's iron-strong hands as efficient as a vise. Another five seconds, and the Elite would crush Montag's skull with its bare hands. Not a very pleasant way to go.

Time seemed to slow down, and Montag could see clearly in between the Elite's fingers. Maybe this was the oxygen rushing to his brain, maybe it was some sort of instinct that had been honed to a fine point over the past twelve years. Whatever it was, he clearly saw the Knife lying by the Elite's head, and he saw exactly what to do with it.

He scooped the Knife up off the ground and stabbed. The blade arced down , unimpeded by shields, armor or bone, pierced the Elite's right eye and lodged in its brain.

The Elite let go of Montag and began to twist and turn, shaking its body like it was possessed. Montag held the Knife in a viselike grip, twisting it around and around, creating a wound that wouldn't close. The eight-inch blade was pressed as far as it would go into the Elite's eye socket, shredding the brain and grinding against bone.

The Elite slowly stopped struggling and began to die. Montag rolled to the side and lay down, breathing heavily, vaguely wondering when his luck would run out. Elites had many times the strength of humans; he'd only lived because the Elite had tried to kill him the hard way.

He could feel blood running down his face; the Elites blood and Montag's own blood. He had the universe's worst migraine, and was seeing dots. He closed his eyes and relaxed to regain his energy.

It felt good… the anger receding… just lying there, waiting to be found.

He couldn't rest though. Those Elites had been dispatched as scouts, warning the incoming assault force of the Human defenses. Additionally, it would make sense to believe that they also had orders to eliminate sentries. People with accurate guns and good hiding places were often the worst of headaches to invaders.

If there were more cloaked Elites prowling about, Montag's best chances lay with his guns, on the cliff five meters above him. It would be difficult scaling the cliff in his condition, but he'd cover more area wandering around looking for an easy way up, possibly bumping into something he didn't want to meet.

First things first, though. He needed his helmet.

Montag opened his eyes and blinked. His eyesight was good, but he felt blind. He always felt blind without his HMD to show the world to him, naked without his armor covering him. Sitting up, he looked around for his helmet, and saw it a few meters away. He could make it. He drew himself up upon one leg and tried to stand. He couldn't. He fell back to the ground, gasping heavily, his body wracked with pain.

Something on the Elite's belt warbled, an alien language whispering to the owner.

Montag muttered a prayer before crawling for the helmet. Five meters. Four meters. Three meters. Two meters. One last meter. His body convulsed the whole way, feeling like it was on fire. When he was within reach, he reached out and grabbed the helmet. He put it on, switched on the HMD, and then looked at the cliff. It was just over a five meter climb, but it might as well as be a mile.

The communicator on the Elite's belt warbled again, the voice sounding more urgent.

Montag looked at the cliff again. The Rifle and the ammo were at the top. Five meters, but it could be cut to four meters if he stood on that boulder over there…

He crawled to the boulder, leaned against it, then stood. He was still shaky, but he could do it; he was feeling better already. He heaved himself on top of the boulder and rested, then stood up and slipped his fingers into a crack in the rock. Now he grabbed a crevice above that and pulled. Two meters. A jutting rock served as a handhold. Another crevice, another handhold. The first crevice served as a foothold. Now a narrow ledge. One meter. A small hole in the cliff was a handhold. Possibly hollowed out by birds, if this Ring held any. A root, and now the edge of the cliff.

Stepping on a narrow ledge, Montag tried to heave himself over the cliff. His boots slipped, and Montag found himself dangling from the cliff by the arms. His energy was nearly spent. The only thing that kept him hanging on was the thought of the fall to the ground.

Then, he looked up and forgot entirely about his ordeal.

Above him was a cloud of smoke or shadow. When Montag focused hard enough, it resolved itself into the vague shape of a human, or at least a wraith.

"Penny for the Gui?" the Shadow chuckled.

Montag continued to stare. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he didn't have time for this.

"Bit of a fix we've found ourselves in, isn't it?" The Shadow continued in a slow drawl, moving to the side. "I must admit, I didn't expect us to survive that encounter; but you just won't die, will you?"

It had to be a figment of his imagination. Montag swung his legs over the cliff and rolled, coming to a stop a full meter from the edge.

"Of course, that's the whole problem."

His strength deserted him, and Montag lay there, breathing heavily. His vision started to fade, and he was slipping into darkness. He wasn't losing feeling in his body, however. No, every muscle felt like it had been perforated by an army of Grunts with needlers. His head felt like a Scorpion tank had driven over it. To tell the truth, he hadn't felt this bad since the Hunter pulverized him back in the Badlands…

"So, did we get any vindication out of that murder? A little payback for twelve years of Hell? Justifiable, of course, but people are going to start questioning your sanity a little more. Cutting an Elite apart like that… it's just not within the normal bounds of sanity."

"Shut up, shut up!" Montag gasped.

The Shadow leaned over Montag, seeming to get down on one knee and examine Montag.

"But what's really puzzling is why you're doing all of this. Avenging three billion people? Or just one? Or do you perhaps doing this because you somehow think it will do her memory any good?"

With a painful burst of speed, Montag reached for the Handgun and flicked the safety off before he pointed it at the Shadow's torso. He was stopped just short of pulling the trigger by the Shadow's laugh.

"Cut the bull, Montag. Are you really going to risk breaking cover while you're in that condition? What are you going to tell them you shot at, an imaginary specter? Go ahead, give them a reason to throw us in the brig."

Montag was saved from having to answer by his radio.

"_HQ to all Marines: inbound dropships ETA one minute. Get ready, and enter radio silence unless absolutely necessary."_

The Shadow forgotten, Montag picked up the Rifle and rolled into position. He could now hear the Dropships coming. He reached for the medical pack he had and picked up a one-time syringe of painkiller and antibiotic. That was quickly injected, the benefits outweighing the risks of temporarily decreased vision and sleepiness.

Looking at the Rifle Icon on his HMD, Montag blinked twice. It was hard to tell if he was actually looking at the Rifle Icon, since he was still seeing dots. With the scope activated, he zoomed in over the tree tops and saw six dark silhouettes moving fast. He cursed and switched on Night Vision. Under normal circumstances, he hated using Night Vision, but now but any explosions should be too far away to blind him or burn out the screen.

The six silhouettes became six Spirits flying in a V formation, each with vehicles. The two in the lead each had a Wraith tank. The two behind them were carrying two Ghosts apiece. The two in the rear were carrying a full complement of Shade turrets; two apiece. And there was a sound that was… different from the Spirits. Instead of the droning of the Spirits, there was also the wail of Banshees.

The human defenders were in for a long fight.

Montag thought quickly. The Spirits would definitely take cover in the forest and unload the Covenant there. Otherwise, the snipers would tear the aliens to pieces when they disembarked. Even so, the two camps set up in front of the entrance had one Scorpion apiece, as well as barricades, Warthogs, and a makeshift SAM, enough to take out some of the dropships… had the Covenant planned for that?

As Montag turned to look at the SAMs (Missile pods from downed Pelicans, actually) a volley of six fuel rods shot from the distant forest, arced through the air, and converged on the two camps. Within moments, a second, third, and fourth volley had been fired, crushing any equipment the Marines had to take out the Spirits.

A dozen profanities raced through Montag's head, none of which have a direct translation into English.

The Spirits cleared the treeline, hovered over the Tarmac, and landed. The Banshees flew on towards the Base.

Montag aimed the Rifle for one of the Wraiths. If he shot the Elite before it got in, he could take the Wraith out of the fight before it could do any damage. However, the Wraiths powered up immediately after hitting the ground.

Montag realized that the pilot of the Wraith had flown the trip inside the Wraith. If they had transported the pilot inside the Wraith for all that distance, it meant that the Covenant had expected to land in the open, where they would be subject to sniper fire. If the Covenant knew that they were going to land in the open, then that meant that the Covenant had thought of a way to shield their soldiers from gunfire.

Despite what the United Nation's propaganda machine said, the Covenant were actually clever tacticians, and seemed to care for troop losses; at least the Elite troop loses. However, this attack involved more tactical forethought than the Covenant usually displayed.

Montag was proven correct on the shielding. Jackals disembarked from the Spirits and, under cover of their own shields, immediately set up a semi-circle of plasma shield barricades. The Covenant could hide behind the barricades, but without a rocket launcher or a vehicle ramming through the barricades, the barricades would stay up. The sentries had rocket launchers, but the rockets would have to be reserved for taking out the Banshees. And the Warthogs were back inside the base.

The Wraiths immediately began firing at the Entrance, and the Banshees started firing their fuel rod cannons at the entrance in short, regular strafing runs. Three more Banshees began dodging rocket fire and fired back at the sentries, flying around the base in unpredictable elliptical flying patterns. Four Ghosts were deployed and raced for the base, seeking out the sentries.

All in all, it was a brilliant battle plan the Covenant had, expertly choreographed. If Montag ever met the Elite who came up with the strategy, he wouldn't know whether to shake its hand or rip off its arm and beat the Elite to death with it.

He quickly targeted one of the Ghosts, desperately trying to shake off the dizziness that shrouded his senses.

CRACK!

The Elite fell off the Ghost from the impact of the bullet.

CRACK!

A torso shot this time, but the Elite died where it lay.

CRACK!

Another Elite riding in Montag's direction jerked its head.

CRACK!

The aforementioned Elite no longer had a head.

The rest of the Ghosts made it to the trees, where Montag couldn't target them. He shrugged and concentrated on killing the Grunts operating the Shade turrets. The Banshees must have reported sentry positions to the infantry on the tarmac, who started firing their weapons at him and other snipers. None of the bolts hit him, but they were too close for comfort.

Montag found that he was doing most of the killing. Most of the rest of the snipers were either on the other side of the mountain, had only received basic sniper training, or both. The Marines wielding the jackhammers were ineffective: the rockets didn't have seeker heads (If Montag ever met the Supply Officer who had stocked the Pillar of Autumn… well, he'd always wondered how many organs and limbs the Human body needed to stay alive…) and the Banshees were flying in elliptical strafing patterns. Those who fired at the Covenant were stopped by the barricades. When one was taken out, a Jackal would set up another one behind it until the first one regenerated.

Montag considered trying to shoot down one of the Banshees, but their flight pattern wouldn't give him a shot at the vulnerable spot. That left option two, shooting at the Covenant huddling behind the portable shields; or option three, quietly sneaking away.

Then one of the Banshees exploded as it was making a strafing run at the Entrance. Montag was sure he was seeing things, until he saw one of the Rockethogs fly out of the Entrance at full speed, driven by none other than the Spartan. The gunner started targeting the barricades while the Master Chief zigzagged towards the main Covenant force. Then the two tons of armored 'divine intervention' plowed through the barricades, mulching Grunts and Jackals beneath its tires.

Four more Warthogs exited the base, two of which were hit by the barrage from the Wraiths. The two survivors circled the Covenant force, shooting at the Banshees that had broken off their attack to hunt down the Hogs.

The Covenant assault was halted, diverted for the moment, but the battle had yet to be won.

Seconds after crashing through the plasma barricades, the Master Chief leaped out of the Rockethog and fired at the Covenant point blank with his assault rifle. Grunts and Jackals in a nearby lance turned into geysers of blood and bone under the onslaught. The passenger slid into the driver's seat, and the Hog took off, the Gunner blasting away at the barricades.

When the Assault Rifle ran out of bullets, the Chief dropped it and seized a fuel rod gun from a nearby Grunt. He (Or she. You can't tell with those tin cans) bashed the Grunt's head in with the gun, and simultaneously fired what looked like a wild shot. Whether it was or not, it incinerated two Jackals.

One of the Wraiths took notice of the Chief and attempted to run him over. Big mistake.

The Spartan leaped onto the Wraith and landed on the hatch, cracking it open. It then fired the fuel rod gun at the other Wraith, hitting it twice and goading it into action.

The other Wraith was faced with a dilemma. It was endangered by the Spartan, but the Spartan was on the other tank, meaning that it couldn't be fired upon without collateral damage. And the surrounding infantry, as well-drilled as they were, were clearly more interested in shooting at the circling Warthogs.

The Wraith pilot made a snap decision and fired at the Spartan. Predictably, the Spartan was no longer there. The blob of plasma crashed into the first Wraith, penetrating the cracked hatch and killing the occupant.

The Spartan had already leaped off the first Wraith, covered the distance between the two Wraiths faster than what was possible for mortal man, and vaulted onto the second Wraith. The hatch was wrenched open, and a grenade was dropped in.

The grenade exploded, sending metal, blood, and bits of Elite upward like a fountain…

* * *

Montag realized that he had been watching the spectacle instead of shooting Covenant. From all appearances, luckily, the other sentries had been doing the same thing. Montag chose his targets.

CRACK!

One of the gunners on the Shade rolled out of the cockpit and died on its way to the ground.

CRACK!

A Grunt boarding an empty Shade never made it.

CRACK!

A Jackal with the presence of mind to charge up its plasma pistol and aim for the Master Chief no longer had a mind, or a head.

CRACK!

Another Shade Gunner leaned back and died.

Montag reached over and selected a Shredder clip, simultaneously ejecting the empty magazine.

CRACK!

The last Jackal spun, spraying blood everywhere.

CRACK!

A Grunt who had been running for his life died tired.

CRACK!

An Elite had come out from behind a barrier, plasma grenades at the ready.

CRACK!

The Elite had tried to dive back behind the barrier. Montag had shot it in the lower torso, but it wasn't moving.

And that was the last of them. The Covenant that were left were cowering behind the barricades, being slaughtered by the Master Chief. The Spirits were long gone, and soon the night was silent once again.

The Human victory had come at a price. The three Warthogs that had made it out of the Base alive were in smoking ruin, the drivers and gunners dead or dying. Montag realized that they were all ODSTs, only alive because of their armor and advanced training. Many of the sentries had probably fared just as well.

Montag set the Rifle down and opened the Medpac. Selecting a Morphine patch, he pressed it against his forehead. Soon the pain would be gone.

Would the Covenant follow up on their assault? They certainly had the soldiers and equipment to expend, but did they have the leadership?

He waded up two pieces of gauze and stuck them in his nose to stop the bleeding. Then he checked his HMD. The Master Chief's battle was safely recorded. It would probably make its rounds through the base, and then end up on if spartanvids dot com they made it off this foul ring.

Montag checked his HMD clock. Just after midnight. Two hours left in his shift, but they would probably switch everybody out after that fiasco.

He pulled out the Knife, carefully cleaning the brackish blood off the blade. Elite blood was slightly corrosive, and dried quickly. And when it dried, the only cleaning solvent that would get it off was Purple Stuff. Not pleasant.

After cleaning the blade, he carefully added ten notches to the stock of the Rifle. The two Ghosts, the three Shade gunners, an Elite, Two Jackals, and one Grunt. Then he pulled out the smaller knife and added a large notch to the Knife, for the Elite scout. Then he put the Knife away.

When he started to reflect on the attack, the Covenant had come unprepared. At best, they could have suppressed the sentries, but didn't have the infantry support to take the inside of the base, or enough vehicles to hold the outside indefinitely. On the other hand, the humans hadn't been without their foul-ups. It seemed like the Major in charge of the base had gambled on focusing all resources on getting the PD cannons outside as soon as possible before building more defensive postitons, before the Covenant arrived. When Montag thought about it-

His radio whined. "Are you in need of medical attention?" a female voice came in over his radio.

"Yes."

"Please state the nature of your medical emergency."

"I've nearly got my head crushed by an Elite. Does that count as a medical emergency, or do I have to get shot too?"

"Just one minute."

The bushes moved twenty meters to his right. It was obvious she didn't believe him, but protocol required that she check him out. The corpswoman came within ten meters, then saw his mangled face and the small pool of blood he was lying in.

"Good lord."

She rushed forward and kneeled by his side, taking out medical equipment.

"What the Hell happened to you?" She asked while rubbing painkiller into his cuts.

"I got into a wrestling match with an Elite. What does it look like I did?"

"And you walked out alive?" she asked, her voice betraying her skepticism.

"Do I look dead?"

She smiled.

"If you don't believe me, that's fine. Just take a look over the cliff." Montag emphasized his words with a jerk of his thumb over his shoulder.

Just to humor him, she glanced over the cliff. Then she glanced again.

"Oh. My. Lord." She murmured.

* * *

**Bunk Room, 0015 Hours**

The voices woke him up, but only seconds before the kick to his 'bed' did.

Jonesy's eyes snapped open, his body becoming rigid.

"Get the Hell out of bed! The Covenant are here!" Somebody threw a coat at him.

"What? They're attacking?" Jonesy grabbed the coat, struggling to get out of his bed. The PD cannons weren't outside yet, and if the Covenant attacked with lots of aircraft now…

"No, they got slaughtered." The Marine replied. "We're just mopping up. Looks like it's your lucky day."

Jonesy had a thousand more questions, but just about everybody was hurrying out of the room. He cursed himself for being unprepared and reached for his boots.

And halted in his tracks.

There was the cat, Junior, sitting on the toe of his right boot. As Jonesy watched, the cat yawned, stretched, and curled up between the standard-issue boots.

Gently, Jonesy pulled the boots out away from the cat, brushed the hair off, and rushed out of the room.

* * *

**A/N: Again, I'm late in getting this to you. Should be writing a little more often during the summer.**

**Well, I've discontinued a oneshot called "F.U.B.A.R." and I'm thinking about doing a second multi-chapter fic at the same time as this one, although not nearly as long. But I'm not sure if I want to do "Nightmare" or something new...**

**Finally, I accidentally glitched this up to the first page for a few hours without posting this chapter. Sorry for the confusion.**

**Don't forget to R&R!**


	19. Me and Myself

**Let's face it: Siberia Prime does not have a colonial militia. Only politicians call it that.  
Siberia Prime has a full fledged army, backed up with everything from MLRS artillery to automated gunship swarms to strategic defenses. We have the industrial backing to keep such an army running for years, and have even customized UNSC tactical doctrine to suit their own needs.**

**The Covenant Armada that tries to invade this hellhole are going to be sorry as all Hell.**

**Yuri Jlanik, Civilian political commentator.**

* * *

**Southern Face of Command Base Foxtrot, 0016 hours**

"So, do you have a good explanation as to HOW you managed to outfight an Elite?" Morris asked, his exasperation hidden everywhere except his eyes.

The Medic finished wrapping gauze around Montag's head, creating a wreath of white bandage that looped around his left ear, over his right eye, above his right ear, and then around again several times to completely cover his forehead up to the hairline.

"Cracked the lower end of its spine on the way down, sir. It was paralyzed below the waist."

"But it still beat the crap out of you."

"Hit me over the head, then tried to crush my skull. It wanted to kill me the hard way. They have a tendency to do that."

"OK, turn your head and cough," the corpswoman said.

"But you still crawled up a vertical five-meter cliff in your condition."

"Follow the trail of blood if you don't believe me." Montag extended his arm so the corpswoman could check it for breaks or fractures. She stared with dry humor at the constellation of needle marks on his upper arm, and then went to work.

"Finally, you claim to have shot down nine enemy combatants."

"Get it right, sir. An insurgent or Innie is an enemy combatant. A Covenant is a Covie, xeno, or alien. But yes, I did shoot down nine xenos at a minimal distance of 300 meters, a distance from which I've been shooting since boot camp. Do you need any other info, or are you ready to write my autobiography yet?"

Both Morris and the medic froze, stunned by the brazen show of insubordination. Montag just pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one with his lighter.

"Well, sir, I'm waiting for an answer."

Deceptively cool and collected, Morris addressed the Medic.

"Attend to the other sentries. I would like a private word with Lance Corporal Gui Montag. He will be down to the infirmary later on."

As soon as the Medic was gone, Morris turned on Montag.

"Listen, Corporal, I don't know what the hell your problem is, but I'm _this close_ to having you left on this ring when we leave."

"What's my problem?" Montag interjected. "My problem is our screwed-up defenses. If we'd put sentries on the land bridges and covered them with Argemone claymores, those cloaked slit-jaws wouldn't have gotten in here. But instead, only the entrance is guarded with light vehicles while everyone is inside working on the PD cannons. Even if the Major is worth his pay grade, he's got a screwed sense of priorities."

"Montag, you know we don't have enough resources to guard the perimeter and get the PD cannons up in a timely manner."

"Sir, the Covenant aren't going to launch a ground offensive until we decisively smash an aerial assault. All we'd be defending against is infiltration."

"It's a moot point anyway, Montag. Two PD cannons are up, two more are being moved out, and the rest will only take a few hours. In the meantime, we're probably going to shuffle around sentry positions."

Morris kneeled down so he and Montag were face to face.

"Now, about your tendency to get yourself beaten to a pulp…"

Morris's radio crackled. "Morris, please report for a staff meeting down on the tarmac."

Morris cursed. "Get down to the infirmary. I'll be around later."

Montag watched Morris walk off, and then he began packing his equipment up. He intended to visit the infirmary, but later. There were orders, and then there were consequences for deliberately disobeying those orders. And then there were ways to sidestep around these orders.

Montag was belligerent. He was insolent. He was perfectly eligible for a Section-Eight discharge. But there was a thin line beyond which one would go and get discharged, and Montag knew how to toe that line.

In the Marine Corps, there was order, there was an objective, and there was an enemy. Bread, water, and air to Montag.

The Handgun slid into its holster, the backpack rolled up and shouldered, and Montag stood up.

From the ledge, he could see Warthogs hauling trailers full of PD parts and frames. What few Warthogs weren't tied up with this job were hauling off the broken Wraiths.

It was a race against time now. The human defenders had to get their defenses up before the Covenant could attack again. Two PD cannons had their set-up complete after the Covenant attacked, but that was still not enough to completely defend against aerial assault. The ground-pounders would have nothing but their vehicles to protect themselves. All because the powers-that-be had decided to divert only minimal manpower to setting up secondary defenses.

If the humans were lucky, however, the Covenant were even more incompetent than they were.

**Tarmac, 0019 Hours**

The Banshee had been taken out by one of the Rocket Warthogs. That being said, the hood was hanging on only by one hinge, the cowling was peeled back from the front, and bits of Elite were leaking out the front.

Jonesy tried his best not to think about the gore, or look inside the Banshee. He just hooked the cable around the inside of the wing and pulled it tight. The same was done to another Banshee ten meters closer to the treeline.

Both cables snaked back to the dual barrels of a single 'gun.' The gun in question was picked up and carried off the Tarmac to the trees. There, a 'safety line' from the back of the 'gun' was hooked around a tree. Now that Jonesy was ready, a push of a button powered up a three-hundred horsepower electric motor, which began cranking on a special pulley. Slowly, the two Banshees were dragged across the tarmac. They fell over the edge and rolled to a stop where they were safely away from the tarmac.

The 'gun' Jonesy was using was best described as a zero-G engineering tool. Without large and expensive maintenance vehicles or docking facilities, workers in vacuum suits could haul out structural spars and armor plate, use the cables to haul the materials in place, and then use additional attachments to cut and weld the materials into place, quickly repairing damaged warships. Or it could be used inside, quickly being set up as a crane, winch, portable welder, etc.

Since it was designed to work in space, the tool was as light as possible, 20 kilograms when fully loaded. Although it sounded light, it wasn't. But it was still a hell of a tool to have around, even for engineering tasks on the ground.

It would have been easier to wait for the Warthogs to finish with the Wraiths and leave the Banshees to them. But then Jonesy might be assigned to hauling the Covenant corpses off and dumping them over the side of the plateau… not something he wanted to do.

Vaguely, Jonesy wondered what would have to be done next. He wasn't a tactician, but defenses on the tarmac would definitely have to be done. Perhaps a few bunkers, or strategic placing of barricades.

Possibly, he'd have to work on the PD cannons though. Six of which would be mounted on the top of the mountain, the other two placed in a position to guard the larger group's blindspots. Two, that is, if they could repair the one that the Covenant slagged during the attack.

At this pace, they could get all of them out by 0400 hours. However, Pelicans might have to be diverted for other purposes, which would slow things down considerably.

As he was thinking, a rock bounced painfully off his neck, just above the shoulder blades.

"Yes!"

Johnesy turned around, glaring at the twins standing behind him.

"Sorry about that." Liz apologized. "Six inches higher, and I would have won the bet."

"Your cat is torturing me enough." Jonesy snapped. "You two don't have to start again."

He unhooked the cables from the Banshees and started reeling the ends in, his anger clearly evident. He hadn't had much sleep tonight.

"Sorry about that," June said.

Jonesy reluctantly quit fuming. His friends had always noted (Correctly) that he let everybody walk over him, resulting in a rather humiliating nickname and a rather small group of friends. So what if Liz had bet her sister that she could knock his helmet off with a piece of gravel? He'd been through worse.

"So what happened out here?" He asked.

"What does it look like?"

Jonesy gazed at the tarmac full of dead soldier and Covenant. "Looks like we almost got wiped out."

"Yeah… pretty much."

"Equipment problem?" Jonesy was referring to how the equipment was unsuited for their type of defense, a topic that had been simmering in conversations throughout the base. After tonight, those few conversations would hold a lot more weight.

"Wasn't just that," Liz spoke up. "Everything was deployed wrong. No vehicle support, and stationary defenses got killed in the first attack."

"The Banshee's didn't help any?"

"They did a pretty good job of trying to kill us."

"No! That's not what I mean!" He pointed back to the entrance. "Didn't they have our Banshees deployed?"

"No. They never made it out of the base."

Jonesy shook his head adamantly. "They were never IN the base in the first place! I didn't see them in the hangar! I figured they got slaughtered out here."

"So…they've been gone since before we got on our shift…"

"But where the Hell are they and what the Hell are they doing then?"

After a few seconds of silent reflection, Jonesy shook his head and gestured to the tarmac.

"As lovely as this discussion is, I have to get back to work. Unless y'all want to help, of course."

"I don't know." Liz answered mischievously. "After lugging a jackhammer uphill and fighting for our lives, cleaning up sounds a little boring."

"What if I think I know where those Banshees are?"

"Then that," June said as she ran to catch up with him. "Is something completely different!"

They walked around the smoking wrecks and climbed back up on the tarmac. The whole base was alive now. A handful of Warthogs were being used to pick up useful salvage and carry it back to the base. The rest had tarps dragging behind them, tarps upon which bodies were being loaded and carried off to the edge of the plateau, where they were unceremoniously dumped off.

Marines were crawling all over the base like ants on an anthill, and Pelicans were busy flying PDC parts out of the base hangar to the top of the mountain. After counting these for a moment, Jonesy smiled.

"We're missing a Pelican."

**Tarmac, 0025 hours**

The painkiller was wearing off rather quickly. It would be wise to get to the infirmary quickly, but Montag still had business to do. Information needed to be gleaned, and preparations for tomorrow needed to be made. And a Ghost had to be taken care of.

Montag had been quick to get to it before the salvage guys, quick to claim it for his own use. He'd driven it to the side of the entrance, where he could watch the repairs being made. Five minutes were spent inside the Hangar, before he found the materials he was looking for. Spray-on camo was standard issue, and had luckily been on the PoA. Montag selected the "Foliage" can and liberally applied the multihued green to the body of the Ghost, covering all the purple he could find.

Montag smiled, enjoying the smell of aerosol propellant. A Ghost was a great vehicle for a sniper, offering mobility and speed. It couldn't match the speed of the Mongoose, nor could it carry a spotter, but Montag wouldn't need either. He would need the Ghost's ability to travel in any direction, strafe sideways, and reverse directions quickly. Boosting would be nice, but it wasn't available.

While he carried out this menial task, his mind wandered. He went over possible defenses for the base, and then wandered even more.

Inevitably, his mind wandered to the endgame, the point where the Covenant would breach the UNSC defenses. It wouldn't be easy for them, since they would be adverse to damaging their relic, but it would have to happen sooner or later.

At that point, it would be easy for Montag to go to ground. Provided he packed as much ammunition for the Rifle as possible, and maybe identified what plants were edible on this planet. Or he could go Hannibal on the Jackals he killed, something that was tasty and nourishing.

What to do though? What was the point in living unless he could do some real damage to the Covenant? This ring was too large; there were certainly superior officers on it, but finding them would be like searching for a diamond in a glacier.

Right. He would have to search for a larger target. Like a Covenant Cruiser.

The Spartan and the Captain had come from one such Cruiser, right? Apparently damaged and hovering over the surface of the Ringworld while repairs were affected. Montag made a mental note to check up on the validity of this rather pervasive rumor.

The weapon was realized at the same time that the target came to mind.

Nuclear fire.

Montag's mind, crippled and strengthened from years of concussions, exercise, medical drugs, and not a few mind accelerants, quickly snapped together a plan. The Pillar of Autumn had been outfitted to kill Covenant Ships, and then board them. Certainly, SHIVA nukes would have been part of its arsenal. One of those, detonated beneath the Cruiser or hauled up in a Gravity Lift or in a captured Spirit dropship, would definitely destroy the Cruiser.

Montag didn't have the codes to arm them, though. As infuriating as it was, he would either need to get the codes, or have a Major order the detonation. That would require Montag to stay with the Marines and hopefully plant the idea in the chain of command.

He left the planning of that for later, enjoying the mental image of a nuke ripping apart a hangar in the Cruiser. It would be contained by the shields and run through the length of the ship until the reactors were in ruins or enough shield generators were destroyed, dropping the shields and letting out a blast like a hundred-kiloton grenade. The energy would burn exposed flesh and metal, before a blast wave leveled everything within kilometers. The force of the explosion would delve into the ground, resounding throughout the foundations of the Ringworld and-

Montag's eyes snapped open, and he sat up straight in the seat of the powered-down Ghost.

Screw the cruiser. He had a bigger target now.

This damnable Ring was some sort of shrine to the Covenant, and the Covenant were perfectly willing to lose a hundred thousand warriors for a handful of artifacts. Imagine their reaction when Montag himself destroyed their holy temple. They'd go fucking ballistic!

A SHIVA nuke, detonated in the bowels of the Ring, would most likely break the Ring. If it didn't, it would weaken the Ring enough for the tidal forces of its orbit to tear it apart.

But Montag didn't need a SHIVA warhead.

He recalled the conversation in the Pillar of Autumn's hangar. When Jonesy had been bragging about the upgrades to the Pillar, had mentioned the power of the nuclear reactor.

Normally, fusion reactors would briefly melt down when compromised. But the high-output reactors aboard many warships contained energy concentrations similar to the Big Bang, and would come apart explosively once retaining pressure was removed.

If Jonesy hadn't been exaggerating, the force would be more than enough to crack the ring. And Montag wouldn't have to mess around with a SHIVA. A few warheads from some Archer Missiles would do the job, if placed right.

Sometimes events just clicked together, fit together like a puzzle and then ran like clockwork. This time, however, it was almost enough to get Montag to believe in God again. For the first time in three years, Montag had a driving purpose, a single goal to work towards. He had something to live for.

"I thought I told you to get to the infirmary."

Montag looked up. Morris was standing over him, wear and exasperation masking his face.

"You did, sir. I was just making preparations for tomorrow." Gone was Montag's customary sarcasm, if only temporarily.

"You and everybody else."

Montag pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Morris, an action half-calculated to make the following interview look like a clumsy attempt to gather information. Since Morris was probably expecting Montag to be planning something, this attempt would make him think that he had Montag figured out, and could predict what Montag would do. And since it seemed like Montag wasn't going to be doing anything particularly devious, then he would not be on his guard. Was that reverse psychology, or double-reverse psychology? Montag was too tired to work it out.

"Any new plans? Something to keep this debacle from happening again?"

"Bunkers being built from Titanium-A on the Tarmac, and vehicle sheds being built from the same. How does that strike you?"

"Like closing the door after the blizzard blows over. But hey, ground operations ain't exactly what our Major is used to."

Morris raised an eyebrow. Not over the weird phrase, but what Montag had said about the Major. His question was answered before he asked it.

"I took the liberty of looking up the Commanding Officers on the Pillar before we left Reach. It seems that Major Nathan Sherman has spent the majority of his career fighting boarding parties on Navy ships, rather than getting his fatigues dirty groundpounding with the Marines."

"So you're saying that he's incompetent?"

"No. Against the normal run of Covenant commanders, he'd be evenly matched. But we aren't exactly up against the normal Covenant, are we?"

"Not when they're able to do this."

"Right. Of course the damage would have been MORE expensive if they had come properly equipped for a siege. But the damage would have been much less extensive if the Banshees hadn't been sent off on a diplomatic expedition to Alpha base. Am I right?"

"Let me guess, Sherlock. You found this out by studying the way the dust has settled in the hangar."

"Hardly, Watson. All the Banshees are gone, and we are missing one Pelican. Not enough manpower in one Pelican to assault a Covenant position, but the Banshees can escort the Pelican as it goes to Alpha Base and retrieves some communications/encryption equipment that couldn't be recovered from the Pillar of Autumn. Or start bargaining with Major Silva over the division of troops."

"What makes you think they will be discussing that?"

"OSDTs are arrogant. Judging from Major Silva's profile, he is even more so. I think he's the kind of guy who would be very interested in getting all of his elite troops back under his control. His most recent victories suggest a near egomaniacal need for praise, and a rather distorted view of what his soldiers are able to do."

Montag saw Morris staring hard at him, and realized that he'd analyzed too far.

"Were you ever an officer?" One simple, loaded question. Montag didn't know how to reply, except with the truth.

"Sniper-Scout, Siberia Prime Civil Defense. That's slightly higher than your rank, but with different duties."

Morris smiled. "This isn't exactly Siberia Prime. Would be a little colder if it was."

Montag's face remained unreadable as he gave Morris the arcane one-fingered salute. "I realize that…_ sir_."

Nothing more was said as a Pelican flew by, carrying the last of the parts for the PD cannons. Within the hours, the base's aerial defense would be complete, and then it would be seen how the ground defenses fared.

For two minutes, the two adversaries sat facing each other, probing for weakness. It was a mental fencing game, the objective and the rules unclear. But Montag was the first to break the silence.

"Is the Major making any plans for long term anti-ground defenses?"

"Like what?"

Montag drummed his fingers on one of the Ghost's control joysticks. He knew Morris was testing him.

"For starters, bring a dozen Archer Missiles from the Pillar of Autumn. Or two dozen. They'll make excellent cruise missiles, which we'll need for lack of artillery."

"How are you going to launch them? And where would you store them?"

"Make a launch frame on a trailer and tow it by Warthog. Or just launch it on the side of the mountain. Targets might be illuminated using the target designator on a Pelican. This isn't frickin rocket science."

"But if we're going to all that trouble, why not get more? We might be up against aerial artillery or something bigger."

Morris was definitely testing Montag. Play along, and find out why?

"I doubt that, sir. Maybe they'd bring in a Scarab, but those are few and far between. Anything with a bigger or less directed punch won't be used. In any case, most of this equipment won't be available until reinforcements arrive, at which point we are screwed no matter what we do."

"Why won't they use heavy weapons? Seems like they'd be in a hurry to wipe us out."

"Sir, this Ring is one big _Zimá _artifact. They're not going to risk damaging it."

"What the Hell is a zeemah artifact?"

Montag changed the subject quickly.

"We need to see if the Pillar has nuclear weapons too. A Covenant Cruiser could deploy enough troops to overwhelm us just by powering up the gravity lift. We need some sort of counter to that."

"They aren't going to get that desperate for a while. Now what the Hell is a zimah artifact?"

Montag gave Morris a long, hard look. The test was over.

"I'm going to the infirmary, sir. You can go to Hell."

Without another word, Montag walked away from where he parked the Ghost to the back of the Hangar, mentally compiling a list of supplies for his imminent guerrilla operation.

**The Sacrosanct Witness, approx. 0400 hours.**

**Holding position 1500 units from the surface of the Holy Relic "Halo"**

Vlar Koloamee walked swiftly down the iridescent halls, his heavy footsteps echoing, proclaiming his superiority to the lesser ranks. Unggoy cleaning slaves drew back as he brushed past him. Kig-Yar security forces shrunk back into the shadows as he passed. Even the white armored Sangheili, assigned to guard duty, treated him with respect. They all knew of his reputation.

In truth, Vlar Koloamee was merely an aide. Although he himself was a brilliant strategist by Sangheili standards, he was best known as a Pupil and an aide to the great Field Master, Mortumas Kandonomee.

The Great Field Master Mortumas Kandonomee. The Undefeated One. Master and Commander of the ground forces. The one who had failed, if indirectly.

Vlar Koloamee walked past the white clad Guards and marched up to the entrance of Mortumas Kandonomee's chambers. The door was more ornate than was usually reserved for Field Masters, the decorations and inlays much more ornate and beautiful. It was a symbol of respect and awe on behalf of the Ship Master, whose honor it was to carry such a renowned warrior.

Mortumas Kandonomee had barely noticed.

Vlar Koloamee rested his hand on a security podium to the side of the door. A flash of pain, and a pulse laser vaporized a section of the upper layer of skin on his palm. Meanwhile, a camera did a spectrographic analysis of the vaporized skin cells for fragments of his DNA. A moment later, the door slid open.

Vlar Koloamee stepped into the room, and paused to reflect on how different the room was from the rest of the ship. The air was warm, humid, and had a hint of rilgnath berries and sea spray, in keeping with Mortamus Kandonomee's tropical homeland back on Sangheilos. The lighting was low key, and most of the room was dark. The entire chamber was in stark contrast to the rest of the ship, with its halls brightly lit and reeking of ozone.

When the door slid shut, Vlar Koloamee heard a low, guttural singing. It was slow, chanted in iambic heptameter with a voice laden with sorrow and rage.

Mortumas Kandonomee meditated in the center of his chambers, chanting the Battle Poem of his clan. A Battle Poem told of the great wars, battles, and triumphs of a certain family. Many families, such as the Donom clan, had Battle Poems started millennia ago, with hundreds of verses telling of the exploits of warriors who honored their families.

Mortumas Kandonomee had two entire stanzas devoted to himself.

And why not? After all, had his tactics not won the ground war on a dozen planets defiled by the humans? Had he not popularized the effective tactic of Sangheili led Lances, rather than massing Unggoy and throwing them at a particular holding? Had he not crushed the humans beneath his heels when others would resort to glassing?

Vlar Koloamee waited in silence for Mortumas Kandonomee to end his battle hymn. To interrupt would be a grave insult, for the Master of War was grieving. Not for his loss of face, or for the irreparable damage to his legend of a reputation. No, he was mourning the lives lost under his command the night before. The Sangheili, Kig-Yar, and the Unggoy he had tirelessly trained, honed for battle in wargame after wargame. Warriors whose lives he valued and protected more than most. The lives he had been forced to sacrifice for nothing in the previous battle.

Slowly, Mortumas Kandonomee ended the battle hymn with a call for guidance from his ancestors, praying for the knowledge to know True from False, and the wisdom to know Right from Wrong. He uncurled from the hunched position on his seat and rose.

Vlar Koloamee bowed low, and Mortumas Kandonomee noticed him for the first time. He quickly strode over and bade Vlar Koloamee to stand.

"Spare me the formalities, young warrior. Tell me, what says the Prophet?"

Vlar Koloamee nervously rose to his hooves. He had been wondering how to break the news to his Teacher ever since he heard it.

"The Prophet, and the Shipmasters in general, are greatly displeased, Master."

Angrily, Mortumas Kandonomee pressed his mandibles together. "But of course they are. And whose fault is it? Tell me, what shall they do now that they've wasted my forces already?"

"They have given the task of eradicating the human filth to another. A certain Field Master, Qvan Illionomee."

Mortumas Kandonomee seemed to withdraw into himself. His failure, his failure to one of his pupils, his failure to his men, was being punished not only with disgrace, but with distrust.

Vlar Koloamee felt a coal of hot anger rise from his hearts. The Teacher was blaming himself for the debacle. But come to think of it, had the Teacher not informed the Prophet himself that he was not ready to take the Shrine? Had he not dared to tell the Prophet that they did not have the proper equipment to mount a successful assault?

And the Prophet had given his decision: Mortumas Kandonomee would not be the one to lead the first assault on the Shrine. That dubious honor was awarded to one of his pupils, who had been studying war for years now.

The punishment for Mortumas was two-edged. Should his pupil succeed, then Mortumas would be publicly humiliated, proved wrong by one who was many years his junior. If he was proved right, and the Shrine wasn't taken, then he lost a valued pupil, and a son of a powerful Councilor and friend.

But no sane warrior could lay the blame at Mortumas's hooves.

No, the fault lay with the Prophet; too arrogant and dogmatic to see the Humans as anything other than filth to be cleansed. The Prophet may know the Holy Scriptures, but his business was theology, not tactical doctrine, and even he would be best to know his limitations.

Heretical thoughts, but the Forerunners would understand. They'd been warriors too.

Mortumas Kandonomee looked back down at his Pupil, and spoke. "Surely Qvan Illionomee would have had a war plan ready, did he not? He would have been anticipating the duty since the Prophet gave his fatal decision."

Vlar Koloamee nodded. "Yes, War Master. His plan differed little from yours, with the sole exception of the availability of the weaponry and the point at which the warriors would invade. He would use a murder of Banshees to suppress resistance within the Shrine, while the antiquated Spirits drop off vehicles and foot soldiers just outside the entrance. The mass of troops will then flood through the base, slaying all humans. While you opted to strike with surgical precision, Qvan Illionomee seems quite content to smother the enemy with the blood of Sangheili."

Mortumas Kandonomee's reaction was quite unexpected. He began to laugh, or at least the Sangheili version of it.

"His force will not get so far as the front door." Mortumas Kandonomee gestured towards a crystal mounted in the ceiling, and the room filled with the faint glow of a hologram. A large model of the Shrine appeared in the center of the room. It was in full color, with readouts streaming from points of interest.

"I recognize the video as being from one of the Spirits." Vlar Koloamee said. "But what is it you wish to point out?"

"Take note of the machinery the humans are placing near the Entrance and at the Peak of the Shrine. Do you recognize this weapon?"

Vlar Koloamee studied the large guns for a while, and then clicked his upper and lower mandibles together.

"The humans raided their starcruiser earlier this day, hauling off all matter of equipment and supplies." Mortumas Kandonomee gestured, and the hologram swirled and cleared, this time displaying the human's warship, and the surrounding crater. Pelicans and Warthogs were entering and leaving the warship at will. "The Zealot in charge, if he has lived through the ordeal, faces a great amount of pain should he be found."

"The weapons you see here are the point defense autocannons from the starcruiser. I have seen them work, and they will shred any aircraft Qvan Illionomee dares to swarm the infestation with. Though they may be primitive, the projectiles they fire are twice as big as your finger, and puncture Banshee armor with ease."

"And so, I must go before the Prophet and expose the fallacies in Qvan Illionomee's plan."

"But neither the Prophet nor Qvan Illionomee will listen to you."

"True, but when Qvan Illionomee fails the very way I predict, I will gain standing in the Prophet's eyes, standing I should have gained when Gnall 'Relkandee died. And perhaps regain the task of assaulting the base. And then I shall mount a proper campaign."

Vlar Koloamee paused to think. His mentor's plan of action was not the honorable thing to do. However, Mortumas Kandonomee had always considered honor to be below the importance of warfare. Vanquishing the enemy came first, and then one could take ballroom manners into consideration. Once, after a particularly heated argument with his superiors over the value of Sangheili footsoldiers, Mortumas Kandonomee had taken Vlar Koloamee aside and told him that there was no honor in this war. Massed rush tactics had killed it. And if the rushes hadn't killed it, then the orbital bombardments had. And if the glassing hadn't, then catering to the Brutes sure as hell had.

The odd thing was that his mentor's indifference to honor in place of warfare had only increased the respect his peers had for him. His refusal to sacrifice his warriors without gain made him stand out from others of his rank. And his reputation as a savant of battlefield tactics and his record of never having lost a battle earned him a reverence that was almost universal amongst the Sangheili, and gained him an honorary title of 'Field Marshall'. While he technically held no rank over other Zealots, many considered him to be their superior by reputation, and would quickly accept his advice or give the reins of command over to him.

Truly, he was a legend, a war hero.

But now, because of the rushed deadline the Prophets had given him, he had not had proper time to scout and to strategize. Now the Undefeatable One had been defeated. The humans had infested the Holy Relic that was Halo. And despite the best attempts and the blessings of the Prophets, the humans countered every attack and had even scored victories on the offensive.

There were rumors that these were omens, signs of disaster yet to come. Even Vlar Koloamee himself was beginning to wonder. Were the Forerunners testing the mettle of the Covenant? Or was some deeper plan in motion?

Deep in his reverie, Vlar Koloamee failed to notice as the hologram shifted once more. He snapped to attention only after Mortumas Kandonomee gestured for attention.

The Hologram now displayed the Mesa upon which the Shrine of Holy Luminescence was located.

"Have you yet seen the method of the failure?" Mortumas Kandonomee asked.

Vlar Koloamee had not, and he was eager to see it from his mentor's perspective, hear what strategic insights the Teacher had gleaned from watching the recording numerous times. Still, he was amazed that the Teacher would review the battle more than he had to. Seeing his forces, the very soldiers he had cared for and drilled to perfection decimated, sacrificing themselves without gain, must be painful. More than painful.

The recording of the battle started, but not at the start of the battle. Seven faint symbols made their way over a holographic land bridge, picking their way through traps and making their way over the plateau to the Shrine, seeking out the sentries posted on the mountain's slopes.

One of the symbols winked out, and another followed a few moments later. Killed by the same sentry, perhaps. The other Stealth Elites suddenly met with stiff resistance from alerted sentries.

Mortumas Kandonomee gestured, holding out his hand and curling it forward three times. In accordance, the hologram skipped ahead three units, although the only change Vlar Koloamee could see was some movement where the two Elites had died.

Six Spirit dropships sped past the Observer in a delta formation, flanked by Banshees. They then landed in formation, braving fire from the anti aircraft guns near the entrance. The Banshees started strafing the entrance to the Shrine, destroying the anti aircraft guns and preventing the exodus of the humans.

The Jackals ran out from the dropships and set up shield generators, protecting the rest of the troops from the snipers surrounding the Shrine. Teams of Grunts picked up plasma turrets and moved them away from the dropships. Several Elites mounted their Ghosts and took off to find and eliminate the snipers. There were far too little Ghosts to hunt down every sniper, but it was all that Mortumas Kandonomee could gather for the siege. All the troops were working and fighting in perfect synchronization, just as Mortumas Kandonomee had endlessly trained them to do.  
Sniper fire lanced out from the area where the two Elites had died, slaying one Ghost driver, then another. The other two Ghosts made it to cover, but would be far too reduced to do any damage to the human sentries. The same sniper started shooting the gunners to the plasma turrets. Vlar Koloamee gritted his teeth. This single human had effectively crippled Gnall's ability to eliminate the sentries. It probably didn't matter, since the snipers probably weren't equipped with anti vehicle weapons.

One of the Banshees exploded as it strafed the Entrance. A Warthog flew out of the Entrance, burning its tires on the superheated ground. The gunner in back started firing the weapon at the other Banshees, and the driver zigzagged towards the Covenant battle group.

This is what the plasma turret gunners were supposed to counter. Although it was unlikely that any vehicles would be outside the Shrine, and even less likely that they would be able to get out, a single vehicle would wreak havoc on the troops, unless destroyed by the turrets. The Banshees or the Wraith could have destroyed the Warthog, but only at the risk of letting even more out of the Shrine.

The Warthog smashed through the plasma barriers, throwing elite troops everywhere. The Grunts and a few of the Jackals opened fire, cutting each other to pieces. The plasma lancing everywhere interfered with the holographic recording, making the area hard to see.

The Warthog's driver leapt out of the vehicle, and Vlar Koloamee could hardly believe his senses. Mortumas Kandonomee gestured furiously, and the hologram froze. Holding his hands apart, the Mentor brought them together, and the image zoomed in.

What they saw was a Human like figure, but clad in Sangheili-like armor. It was greenish, and made the human inside taller than any Vlar Koloamee had seen before. He had seen these… things… in action before, and the presence of one now was like a death knell for the Covenant on Halo.

"Yes," the Mentor spoke. "The… Demons are here. The Demons that we have seen with our own eyes, have seen slaughter our troops like thornbeasts at the culling, are fighting along the humans here. The very Demons that our Prophets, in their eternal wisdom, have labeled as 'combat induced hysteria.'"

"See how their presence throws our best troops into disarray? See how they fight with an almost ungodly skill? Unbelievable, perhaps, but one can not argue against their authenticity. The dead soldiers attest to that." Mortumas Kandonomee gestured once again, and the recording resumed playing.

Vlar Koloamee watched as the Demon slaughtered the rest of the fighting team. The Demon, as always, killed with impunity, but something caught his eye that made Vlar Koloamee shudder with fear and anger. When struck by needles and plasma, the Demon's armor flashed. The Demon was equipped with shields equal to or better than those of the Sangheili warriors.

The Demon finally killed the rest of the Soldiers, and the recording paused. Mortumas Kandonomee looked down at his aide and asked him, "So, Student, what was the key to my pupil's failure."

Vlar Koloamee thought for a few moments, and then he spoke. "As far as I could tell, the attack failed simply due to a failure to suppress the snipers situated around the Shrine of Holy Luminescence. That, and the double failure of the scouts to detect the presence of the Demon and inadvertently warning the humans of our impending strike foiled your plans, Master."

"Perhaps," Mortumas Kandonomee answered. "But these could have been avoided had Gnall turned back at the first sign of trouble. But such a course of action was… forbidden."

More footage of the same fight was displayed, but from different angles.

"Interestingly, as I see from the recording, your defeat can be attributed to but two humans: the Demon, if human he is; and the sniper who killed the Elites, and then proceeded to kill the gunners."

Mortumas Kandonomee differed. "The Demon did the impossible, but the human sniper only contributed out of chance, being in the right place at the right time. We have encountered the best of human snipers in the field, and this one is… not of that caliber, from what we've seen."

"Have you yet drafted a new plan?"

"Nay, but I have the beginnings of one."

The Mentor had shown Vlar Koloamee the recording, and was proud that his Pupil had grasped the tactical situation. But there was more for him to see. "I have something else for you, a recording of the Humans taking their other base…"

**Infirmary, 0400 hours**

The bathroom/shower room was just across the hallway from the Infirmary. It held the life support reactor from the Pillar, which powered the base. A heat exchanger heated water for showering and cleaning. It was a temporary setup, but it was almost enough to make a person feel human again. Or feel like they should feel almost human.

Montag had been ordered, in no uncertain terms, to shower and clean up before a hairline crack in his skull would be cemented closed. Recovery would take hours, instead of the weeks it used to take. All in the name of getting soldier back in the battle as fast as possible.

He opened his eyes, gazed at his reflection in the mirror, and reached for the gauze bandage that still encircled his head. He slowly unwound it until the blood-matted hair was revealed, until it was completely off. Then he reached for the bloody cotton pad that covered his right eye, pulled it off, opened his right eye, and stared into the mirror.

Two eyes stared back from the mirror. The left one was hazel.

And the right one, the one always covered by the HMD or kept closed, or any number of things… the right eye was ice blue, had the look of death in it.

He blinked several times, undressed, and stepped into one of the shower cubicles. The warm water ran over his body. He rubbed the blood out of his hair, then closed his eyes and basked in the steam, letting the warmth swirl around his body, letting the hot water run down his spine. Slowly, the kinks in his body unknotted, his muscles relaxed, and he drifted off…

"_And now for the weather report."_

"_As usual for this season, we have a large cold front moving north from the Wastelands. However, it should meet with a large body of warm, moist air caused by the Vladyek steel mills. So expect larger than normal snowfalls and icy precipitation in the northwest basin for the next two weeks."_

_Montag opened the cupboard, rummaging around and wondering what to eat. Oatmeal was the most palatable option, but he could always check the refrigerator for leftovers. Behind him, the coffeepot turned on automatically, began heating up last-night's brew._

"_The heat wave in the southern ridge continues, and may even reach highs of negative eight degrees Celsius, an all-time record for that region."_

_She walked into the kitchen, already dressed in jeans and a warm sweater. She'd have to leave for her job in… Montag concentrated hard, forcing his sleepy brain to think. Thirty minutes._

"_The couch wasn't too uncomfortable, was it?" Vera asked._

"_No… I've had worse before."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Hey, I understand."_

_Montag had faced down the Covenant, gone through boot camp, and endured four years (Three years and two months to him) of Hell._

_Now he faced something even harder. Settling down. Getting a job in the depressed economic conditions of Siberia Prime. Marrying, eventually._

_Oatmeal. He'd settle for oatmeal; maybe some raisins too._

_But it was just like his grandfather said. Some things never go away. Some things will never be forgotten. Some things will always be missing, reminding you forever with their absence. He hadn't meant to be cruel when pointing this out. He was merely giving a warning, telling the truth so that the pain would ease with time._

_Yeah, Montag really knew he was sleepy when he was waxing poetic. Was he hung-over too? He couldn't remember, but he knew he'd indulged in the local vodka yesterday. A leisure he'd gone far too long without. A leisure that only conjured loneliness without certain friends by your side._

"_Did you come up with any new ideas for jobs last night?" Vera asked, while engrossing herself in the morning E-newspaper._

"_Yeah. Vote for whoever wants to expand the Siberian Militia."_

"_Seriously."_

"_Not much out there for me. We pumped thirty million people into the UNSC military over the past four years, mostly into the Army or Marine Corps. Consolidated Industries, of course, just uses the decrease in available workers to increase mechanization in their factories. And when twenty-one million of these soldiers come back, we have fewer jobs for them. Everyone is pushed into service and raw-materials industries, and I don't have anywhere to go now."_

"_I'm sorry."_

"_Don't be. You're not the one who signed up. You're the one who stuck around and went to medical school."_

_Montag set a bowl of oatmeal in the microwave and sat down at the table next to Vera._

_Vera looked up from her newspaper, recalling a conversation she'd had yesterday. "Kantorek's family needs a mechanic for the vodka distillery. They were asking about you."_

"_I can't do that."_

_She sighed. She didn't know why he was blaming himself, why he wouldn't take the only job available. Montag and Kantorerk's family were the only people who were told how Kantorek died. Neither was telling; she only knew it had been painless and instantaneous._

_But why was Montag blaming himself? Was it simply because he was there when it happened and they were best friends? Or was it something else?_

_Montag got up from the table, stumbling over to the gurgling coffee pot. If the job market kept up like this, he'd have to go for the only job left for him: another stint in the Marine Corps._

_He didn't want to do that. He could go for the rest of his life without hearing the crack of gunfire, or seeing the aftermath of firefights, or watching his f-_

"Lemme down, I'd ruther die, I'd ruther die…"

_The cup dropped from Montag's nerveless hands, spilling coffee all over his bare feet._

"_Gui, are you alright?"_

"_Yeah. I just spilled some hot coffee on my hand. I'll clean it up."_

_A white lie. But was it really so harmless?_

Montag opened his eyes. The memories usually brought anger, but this one merely brought… was weariness the right word?

Montag glanced at the water that was pouring down on him, only it wasn't water, it was blood. Warm, fresh blood. He blinked, and it was water again.

He washed off the soap and exited the shower. As he did so, he glanced into the opposite shower stall.

In the stall was a corpse, or a human who was moments from death. His face and chest were in tatters, ripped apart by needles and melted titanium plate, and both eyes were hanging out of the sockets, covered in frost and frozen blood. Disinterested, Montag pulled on some boxers, picked up the Knife and walked over to the sink. He examined the stubble on his face and started shaving with the Knife.

He'd occasionally wondered what kind of a headcase he was. Clearly insane, suffering from hallucinations. And those dreams that weren't dreams; more like he was reliving the experience. But he was able to differentiate between what was real and what was in his mind, right? He knew a hallucination when he saw it, right?

"It doesn't matter, Montag. You're still a headcase."

Montag didn't bother turning. He knew he'd just see the Shadow.

"But the truth is, Montag, that I am as real as your sick mind makes me."

Montag wanted to answer, to lash out, but he couldn't feel the anger he needed. Just emptiness, just a tired weariness that demanded that he rest.

In the mirror, he saw the indistinct form of the Shadow, saw it walk over to a pile of his clothes and pick up the Handgun. He turned it over in his hands, examining the condition in which Montag kept it.

Wait, was he really seeing a hallucination pick up his sidearm? Or was the sidearm a hallucination too?

"Still, you can come up with some beautiful ideas. Blowing up the Pillar of Autumn, taking out this Ringworld. Beautiful and ambitious. Finally, it's the Corps screwing the Covenant, instead of the other way around."

"Shut the Hell up." Montag growled, not caring if the Shadow was real or not.

The Shadow could care less about what Montag thought. Unlike Montag, it was lucid and rested enough to get pissed properly. And pissed it was.

"But if you had this brilliant idea, why the Hell aren't you following up on it! Why the Hell are you still here?!"

"All in good time."

"Bull! A week ago, you would have set off on the first chance you got. There's a group of Pelicans going to the Pillar _right now_, and you aren't going with them!"

"I've got bruises all over and hairline fractures in my skull. You think they're going to take me?"

"Since when have you ever cared! Get in one of the Banshees and fly escort!"

Montag leaned against the plastic mirror, venting his anger by slowly cutting at his reflection with the Knife, scarring the mirror.

"What difference does it make if I do it today or tomorrow, or the next day?"

"Only a fool trades a certainty for an uncertainty. Tonight, you have a certain way to the Pillar! But tomorrow is uncertain! Think, man, think!"

"Shut the Hell up and let me run my own life!" Montag was shouting now, not caring if the whole base heard him, not caring if he was supposed to be too tired to care.

"It's my life as much as yours! Screw Kanoff, screw Da Vega, screw the twins, get the Hell out of here! This is the worst possible time for you to finally get a conscience! Screw them all, they're going to die anyways!"

Montag remained silent for once, but was seething. A bystander wouldn't have known what he was doing.

Shaking all over, he pulled the Knife out of the mirror. A few unsteady steps, as if he had a few stiff ones, and he advanced on the Shadow.

"What are you going to do, Montag? Kill a sick projection of your imagination?"

Trembling, Montag slashed at the Shadow, too upset to scream or shout insults or rebukes. The Shadow merely sidestepped around Montag, a blend of Shadow and Smoke.

"Go to bed, Montag. I don't have to tell you how pathetic this is."

Montag wouldn't comply, normally. But he was spent, and had no other choice. He wanted the rest.

As the Shadow dissipated from his consciousness, Montag dressed, shambled into the bunk room, and fell onto the bed.

He was asleep before he hit the blankets.

_Montag ran through the forest, panting heavily. His fatigues were matted with blood, sweat and grime, and he could barely see through the muck that covered his face. Across his back a fellow Marine was draped. Kantorek. The childhood friend of Gui Montag. They had grown up together, played together, learned together. They had signed up together. Together, as friends, they had gone through basic training and fought to be assigned to the same platoon._

_Now, Montag was carrying his childhood friend on his back, cringing as liters of blood and biofoam slowly drained from multiple needle holes. He brushed past draping vines and ignored Kantorek's desperate pleading._

"_Put me down, I'd ruther die, I'd ruther die…" Kantorek gasped, in between the shudders of pain._

_Montag kept putting one foot in front of the other. Must keep going, must keep going. Must keep going if he was to save Kantorek. If he was to get himself and Kantorek to a hospital. Keep putting one foot in front of the other._

_It was hard, nigh impossible. Montag had not eaten in a day, and he had gotten sick, throwing up, as if his body was trying to expunge the memory of killing a fellow Marine. But whenever Montag closed his eyes, he could see O'Lear's face deform and explode from the bullet, in slow motion. _

_"Let me down, please… I'd rather die…"_

_Montag hoped Kantorek would faint; that he would pass out and not have to bear the pain._

_"I can't go any further, let me die."_

_Montag leaned against a tree, and rested._

_"If I leave you here, you won't be found. Now let's have another go."_

_Montag stood up and tried to continue carrying Kantorek. They went for about twelve meters before Kantorek started asking Montag to leave him. And Montag was too weak to carry him._

_Montag leaned Kantorek against a large tree and applied more biofoam. Kantorek was pale from blood loss, but there was nothing Montag could do. He wasn't a Medic._

_"The base is no more than three kilometers away," Montag reassured Kantorek. "I'm going to leave you here, and I'm going to go get help. You're not going to die."_

_Kantorek said nothing, he just stared off into space, slowly breathing. Montag wondered if Kantorek heard him._

_Then Kantorek reached out and clasped Montag's hand in his own, gave a firm squeeze, and let go. Montag could feel blood smeared on his calluses, which had only begun to harden in the past six months he'd been a Marine._

_Montag nodded, and ran off as fast as his condition would allow._

_Thirty minutes._

_It had taken more than thirty minutes to get back._

_Fifteen minutes to run back to the base, a pace that almost killed Montag._

_Five minutes to find a Medic, locate a Warthog, and force the aforementioned Medic into said Warthog at gunpoint._

_Another ten minutes to drive the Warthog back and find the place._

_Too long._

_Montag saw the large tree where he had left Kantorek. He pulled the Warthog up and leapt out._

_The tree was bloodstained where Kantorek had been. But Kantorek was nowhere to be seen._

_Montag stared in disbelief at the tree, his heart feeling as if it had been cloven in two. Then he started shouting as loud as he could, waking animals throughout the forest._

_"KANTOREK. KANTOREK!"_

* * *

**A/N: I finally managed to update within a month!**

**OK, I wanted to start revealing more of Montag's past and some of his motivations, but I also had to set the groundwork for what he will be doing in the later chapters. So, I had to compromise. Hope y'all liked it.**

**In other news, I have passed a major threshold in my life: I have turned eighteen today. That means I can vote and get drafted, but I can't smoke or drink. Meh, I guess I'll settle for that.**

**Don't forget to R&R!**


	20. Detente

_**I've been thinking, and I can't help but wonder. What if every planet had the political will to arm its citizens and defend itself. What if the UNSC didn't have to evacuate hundreds of millions of citizens, but instead fully engaged the xenos? What if the citizens were chomping at the bit, dedicated to fighting tooth and nail against the invaders?**_

_**What if we fought like Siberia Prime promises to?**_

**Xi Long, civilian embed for Reuters. **

* * *

**Bunk Room, 0713 Hours**

Montag jerked awake to the delicate sound of thunder rumbling through the base. The thunder continued to roar as he snatched up the Handgun, flipped the safety off, rolled off his bed and fell into a prone position. Instincts honed from fighting Innies took over, memories of nightly mortar and rocket attacks flooded through his mind.

But Montag was on Halo...

"Somebody's high strung. Get enough sleep?"

As Montag scanned the room, he saw that most of the Marines in the bunk room were staring at him, stopping halfway through what they were doing to watch the guy who had slept in get woken up by a 150 decibel alarm clock. A few bunks down, Liz was putting her fatigues on, and was smiling at Montag's antics.

"What happened?"

"Some guys on the radio said that the Covenant were mounting another aerial assault. They must have gone up against our PD cannons."

And failed miserably, Montag thought. Just as he predicted, the Covenant had tried the same thing over again, albeit under new leadership. A zealot had been found in the Wraith that the Spartan had trashed with a grenade, or so Montag had heard last night.

Seven hours between the first assault and the second; rather slow, given how much equipment the Covenant had orbiting the Ringworld. How much longer until the Covenant mounted their next assault, inevitably on the ground? Or would they go all the way and park a CSS cruiser overhead? Probably the former, as the weapons on a cruiser could do too much damage to the Ring, and deny the groundpounders the glory of eradicating human scum.

Montag put on his helmet, the only piece of armor he didn't have on, having fallen asleep without removing it. As he connected the HMD to the battery mounted in his helmet, the screen blinked and turned on. The Cyberdyne Systems logo and model information were quickly replaced by a screen of scrolling text and a flashing "Low Battery" indicator.

Right. He'd fallen asleep in his armor, and hadn't turned off the HMD or the camo. Given the past day of extensive use, and three months of slow draining on the Pillar, that meant that the isotope batteries would be drained by now. No worry. He'd just replace them in the hangar, while he was getting ammo.

He holstered the Handgun and picked up the Rifle from its place on a bed sheet next to his bed. Time to go to work.

"Is Junior over there?" Liz asked from her bed.

Montag shook his head. "No, he's probably buggering Jonesy."

* * *

**Bathroom, 0715 Hours.**

Jonesy cursed as he fingered the deep knife marks in the mirror. It was just inexplicable. First the privy stalls had started accumulating graffiti just hours after being set up, and now this. Was the vandalism being done by Marines, or was it some sort of spontaneous generation that universally took place in restrooms?

Whatever it was, it could wait until after he shaved. As he wiped off some dried toothpaste from the corner of his mouth, Jonesy studied his face. He didn't have all that much facial hair, but his sideburns needed some trimming.

As he reached for the razor in the makeshift sink, he heard a tiny voice behind him.

_Meow_

He turned around, wearily knowing what he would see. That darn cat was sauntering up to him, intent on getting a morning's supply of cuddling from the one who was apparently his favorite human.

It wasn't that Jonesy hated cats; he was simply more of a dog person. He would rather have found a terrier on the Pillar than a cat, and it was beyond him why Junior had become so attached to him. It just wouldn't leave him alone. Being a dog person, however, he only did what was natural. He pointed his finger at the cat and ordered it to "Stay!"

Much to his surprise, the cat complied. Junior stopped in midstride, giving him the same look of aloof interest that had won over the twins.

The two stared at each other, one in adoration, the other in complete disbelief. As Jonesy shrugged and turned around to shave, he saw the cat resume its approach in the mirror.

"Stay!"

Junior stopped.

"Sit!"

Jonesy was astonished to see the cat comply. He completely forgot about the razor and squinted at Junior. Cats don't do tricks like this, right?

One way to find out.

"Roll over!"

With only a brief hesitation, Junior rolled over onto his back, and then righted himself with the air of dignity that cats were infamous for.

"Speak!"

"_Meaow…"_

"Sit!"

Junior sat on its haunches, raised a paw, and began preening itself. That was another thing that irked Jonesy about cats: they were obsessive-compulsive nitpickers. Dogs didn't mind getting down and dirty, playing around and fetching the ball. Cats didn't play around unless they were kittens, and only played with you if they wanted something.

Which made this cat one of the weirdest he'd encountered, and he wished it would leave him alone and stick with the twins.

Jonesy turned around and resumed shaving, ignoring the cat that was now nuzzling his leg. He wasn't particularly interested in reporting Junior's antics to anyone, as Junior probably wouldn't perform in front of anyone else. He'd just end up looking like an idiot.

Sometimes, Jonesy hated life.

* * *

**Hangar, 0721 Hours**

As Montag exited the bunk room, he could see daylight streaming into the hangar at the distant end of the hall.

Already, he had a checklist of things to do running through his head. For tonight's trip, he'd need ammo, a new medical kit, MREs, and more.

He also needed a good excuse. There were now patrols and emplacements at the land bridges, and those bridges were the only way on or off this plateau. They wouldn't let him through without a good story, and he should probably try to get a valid reason to leave the perimeter. Land mines... maybe he could pretend to go set up land mines...

"Montag, good to see you. I was just about to come in after you."

That was Sergeant Morris, standing behind Montag.

"I need to go ask some questions about the air defenses, and I thought you would like to come along."

"I can take a look at them on my own time, sir."

"Montag, I want to have a talk with you, and it's going to happen. Come with me, that's an order."

This was an order that Montag couldn't disobey directly. Instead, he just followed Morris slowly, making it clear he wasn't in any hurry to get anywhere. Morris was leading the way down the hall, away from the hangar, to a door at the opposite end of the hallway.

"How'd you sleep last night?"

More small talk. If Morris would actually come out and say what he wanted to say, it would save Montag a lot of aggravation.

"Very good, until the PD cannons woke me up. What did the Covenant send against us?"

"Seraphs and Banshees, mostly. They won't try that again."

_Darn right they won't._

At the other side of the door was some sort of lift or elevator, big enough for a Warthog and a little more, if you could get it in here. Morris gestured for Montag to get on and stand still. There was some sort of alien control console that Morris activated to get the lift going. The language may be alien, but "up" and "down" are pretty much universal directions.

Montag looked up as the lift ascended, and saw clear bluish skies above at the top of the shaft. There was a back way out of the base? Why hadn't it been used last night? He answered his own question almost immediately; it probably had been used, but only a single squad of soldiers could be ferried up at a time, and no vehicles could get here in the first place. Ergo, he wouldn't have noticed the reinforcements when they arrived.

Impatiently, the sniper decided to get this conversation over as fast as possible. "So, what is it you want to talk about?"

"How would you like your old job back?"

"Old job?" Montag's eyes narrowed. "Which old job?"

"Sniper-Scout, basically. Not quite the same rank, but you'll have the same duties."

That would involve working directly under Morris, unless Morris had convinced the Lieutenant to do this on a platoon level. That opened up a lot of doors, but it also made Morris look like a naïve idiot. He'd made it clear on several occasions that he thought Montag was insane, and Montag had made it clear that he didn't like Morris. Morris's command style... just didn't mesh with Montag's operating procedures.

"Sir, I'm not going to say yes or no until you explain why a fine, upstanding sergeant like you would let a sociopath like me run around unleashed. I hope you have a good reason, because I prefer to work for people who have their heads screwed on right."

"I read your bio, and I thought you'd jump at the chance to have your old job back. You basically had the same duties under Lieutenant Demarest and on Siberia, and you seemed to do a damn good job at it."

Ahh. At least he checked up on Montag, but it only made his offer seem more asinine.

The lift temporarily stopped halfway up the shaft, revealing the HQ room. It was circular, with pipes or partitions or some sort of architecture dividing the room radially. In the hustle and bustle around communications equipment, Montag caught a glimpse of Major Nathan Sherman.

To Montag's recollection, there were two Majors in charge of the ODSTs and the Marines on the Pillar of Autumn, when only one would have sufficed. Ordinarily, this would not have been a problem, as the Major in charge of the Marines would handle boarding action, and the Major in charge of the ODSTs wouldn't need to handle anything until they were on the ground, far away from the ship.

However, with the nature of the Pillar of Autumn's mission, the two branches would have to coordinate very closely, and would work best under a single major: The Marines would handle defensive action against boarding, as usual, and the ODSTs would try to board the enemy ship, presumably with the Spartans at the fore.

Unfortunately, the Corps did NOT want to give control over to an ODST, given the callous disregard of the branch for non-volunteers. And the ODSTs would refuse to be commanded by anyone other than their own, because they wanted a leader they knew was competent. And Major Silva definitely had enough political pull to make the fight even.

None of this had been public, but it was pretty obvious when you looked at it. As far as Montag could see, a compromise had been to put the Captain and the battle AI in charge of both branches, hence the confusion when the Captain had allegedly been captured.

"I'd just love to take the job, sir." Montag said as several people entered the lift. "But I want to see evidence of rational thought behind your decision first. If you read my bio, you'd know about my three week 'vacation' over Jericho I, after which I was eating salad and fruit for months. You'd know about my stunt with the HAVOK tacnuke." Montag gestured to his left shoulder, emphasizing his last point.

"Next, we have my stint in Demarest's Degenerates, including the infamous San Lorenz Massacre. Even if you just skimmed over that last part, you couldn't miss the list of alleged war crimes we racked up. And, of course, there's my brief and glorious stint in the Siberia Prime Civil Defense, and the OSDTs after that, until I was 'Discharged for Medical Reasons'. Medical reasons, because they couldn't bother to put a trial together, try me and shoot me."

Morris cut into Montag's tirade as the lift ascended again.

"Yes, I did read about that. There was also a note about a certain Private O'Lear. Self defense, right?"

Montag's reply was as cold as the MRE he'd had for breakfast. "I did what I had to do."

"Right. And what about Zima Twenty-Six?"

Morris was alreadywary of Montag, given what he'd seen Montag do on the Pillar of Autumn. What the phrase "Zima 26" did to Montag gave Morris the fervent desire to pull out his sidearm and back away from the psychopath as carefully as possible. He was frantic, he was tense, he was…

Afraid? Afraid of what?

"That... was in my dossier..." Montag fought to keep his voice even. "Sir?"

"Yes. Didn't say much. Just that you were… extensively injured. All your ribs were broken, right?"

Montag relaxed, and fingered the right side of his face, where the skin was slightly paler. And, unbeknownst to Morris, the side with the discolored eye.

"And a smashed orbit. Took them months to piece me back together."

The lift came to a stop. Morris and Montag only walked far enough to get off the lift and move to a place where they could talk privately. From what Montag could see, they were in a circular room with a clear ceiling, the only exit was a wide door at the far end..

"How'd you get into the UNSC after that?"

Montag shrugged, as if the answer was obvious. "I faked the medical record when I enlisted. Nobody shared the actual record with the UNSC until 'fifty-one, and even then they didn't care enough to discharge me."

For the first time, Morris caught a glimmer of something that even Montag's bio hadn't clarified. Here was a Marine with eleven years in the Marine Corps, who'd been injured multiple times, indicted for war crimes, and screwed over by the system at least once. Why was he still fighting? Why wasn't he kicking back and enjoying the benefits? Hell, the reasons why he should quit seemed like the reasons he was fighting tooth and nail to stay in the Corps.

"Well, look at it my way. In twelve years, you've killed prodigious amounts of Covvies, Innies, and a few civilians, right?"

"Yeah."

"But you've never killed a fellow Marine in cold blood, right?"

_The Rifle bucked, and smoke billowed from the nacelle. The Pelican swerved as the pilot fought to regain control of the aircraft, and the cockpit drifted into the scope's crosshairs.  
_

Montag smiled. "So far."

"And, to this point, all of your erratic behavior on Halo-"

"On what?"

"Halo. It's what we've started calling the Ringworld."

"Who came up with that?"

"I think it's a Covenant Term. As I was saying, all your actions to date have been devoted to saving your sorry arse, and everyone else's by extension."

The lift came to a stop at the top of the shaft, and the soldiers filed out. From what Montag could see, they were in some sort of awning with a clear ceiling, of alien construction.

Montag shrugged. Halo was a Covenant Term? He'd stick to Ringworld. "Sir, if you want to look at it that way, then I guess it's true."

"In that case, I assume that I can trust you to kill more Covenant than Marines."

Montag's question had been answered, at least to his satisfaction.

"Well then, I'll take the job, sir."

"Good. Our shift starts at 0900."

"Is that all you wanted to talk about?"

"No," Morris responded. He'd come to the… interesting part. He wanted, nay, needed to ask something that hadn't been disclosed in Montag's bio, nor had been uncovered in a later investigation.

"What exactly was your role in the San Lorenz Massacre?"

Oddly enough, it didn't seem to bother Montag. All the question elicited was a casual shrug and a more casual answer. "Shooting. Just like everybody else. It wasn't even a massacre."

"So, you were only shooting combatants?"

"Sir, did we round up the survivors, line them up, and execute them? One bullet apiece?" Montag's manner was that of someone trying to convince a drinking buddy that gravball games were more exciting than baseball. Even, yet firm.

"I sure hope n-"

Did we save the 'racially desirable' children?"

"Hell no."

"Did we board up the _Pequinos_ in their churches and burn them down?"

"Adobe doesn't burn."

"We were in enemy territory, outnumbered ten to one, and cut off from support. We did what we had to do, and I hate the people who made us into Nazis for it. Either those civvies were Innies, or they knew who the Innies were and were cheering them on. Personally, I didn't see the difference, and neither did the Corps, because they didn't ask questions for three years. Then a different administration comes into power, change trickles on down the chain of command, and we're arrested as an olive branch to the local URF."

"Montag, calm the Hell down. I'm on your side in this."

"It didn't sound like it, sir."

"Well, ask yourself this: What were your motivations for going into the town?"

"We got a tip on the location of Philippe Malaca, and we pursued it."

"Outside your jurisdiction?"

"We didn't see it that way, sir." Years of combat and card games had resulted in a poker face that was deadly, either in a card game or a conversation. But behind the mask of everyday angst was a dead calm. He'd told this story many times, he believed it because it was true. It had to be.

Morris sighed, through with this debate. "Thank you, I'm glad we had this talk."

"Thanks for listening… sir." Somehow, Montag found himself meaning it. It felt good to talk things out for a change, almost like going to the shrink.

"Are you coming along?"

"No. I've got stuff to do. Shift starts at 0900."

* * *

**Hangar, 0806 Hours**

"Wow. It's really roomy in here."

"Yeah. Probably because they moved the Hogs, Scorpions, and PD cannons out."

Kanoff thought thought the change was an improvement, and said so. "It just looks a lot more organized. It'll probably mean a shorter response time than last night."

That was good news to Da Vega.

With the exception of the Pelicans, all of the vehicles had been moved outside. The Pelicans were parked facing away from the walls, angled to the entrance. Stacked neatly where they could be quickly accessed were machines of maintenance, refueling, and repair. In the very rear of the hangar, itself the size of a gravball field, were the salvaged supplies and the machine tools.

Focusing on the supplies, they had been rearranged into order, sorted out and stacked neatly. Somebody had set up an armory, complete with a counter and an armorer. This they cautiously approached, gently attracting the Armorer's attention.

"What can I do for you?"

"You're the armorer?"

"Somebody has to make this crap last for two weeks."

"Uh, right. We just need the standard load. Two MA5Bs, the works."

The sergeant was already at work, carefully laying out the rifles, five clips of ammunition, MREs, water bottles, and more. His broken leg, possibly the reason for his assignment, slowed him a little as he limped from a rack of rifles to an ammunition crate to the food box. Within the minute, Privates Kanoff and Da Vega were locked and loaded.

"What do you need for a sidearm?"

"What d'ya got?"

"Well, our good reptilian friends donated a lot of exotic weaponry last night. I suggest you give those guns a go." What remained unsaid was that M6D ammo had been a low priority when they'd salvaged the Autumn.

"Plasma rifle." Da Vega, on the other hand, opted for a plasma pistol.

"Take the plasma rifle. They get better firepower."

"Ever hear of overloading a plasma pistol?"

"No. Does that have something to do with se-"

"Enough!" the Armourer shouted, slamming the weapons on the table. "There's a line forming behind you and I don't have all day. Ya need anything else?"

"Yes," Kanoff said. "A phased plasma rifle in the 40 kilowatt range."

"Look, pal. It's just what you see."

Under the Armorer's disapproving glare, Kanoff and Da Vega vacated their place in line, slowly walking to the daylight streaming into the hangar.

"What a tightwad."

"Notice how he had everything stacked 'just so?' Definitely a neat freak."

All she got from Kanoff was a shrug. "Just so long as he gets the job done. Do you think there's any significance to 'make this crap last two weeks?'"

"Yeah," June said as she caught up to them. By not antagonizing the Armorer, she and her twin had gotten their stuff faster than Da Vega and Kanoff. "Last night, we sent the Banshees and a Pelican off to negotiate with the Covenant, and they agreed to a two-week lease on this dump."

"I'd like to know how much that security deposit cost."

Da Vega grinned impishly. "I say we have a party and trash the place."

"Where are we going to get the pizza and beer?"

"It's tacos and tequila where I come from."

* * *

**Top of Beta Base, 0812 Hours**

As soon as Morris disappeared back into the base, Montag sprang into action. Not that anybody would have noticed by watching him. Sometimes, albeit rarely, action goes hand in hand with discretion. And this brand of action was a sort of furtive and cautious exertion.

He walked around the upper part of the base, looking for a spot with a clear view of all of the Ring, but where nobody could see him clearly. He found it, with trees to one side and rocks to the other. There was little vegetation or shrubbery, except for a few agreeable looking ferns. He settled into the prone position in the undergrowth, and fiddled with the scope on the Rifle.

One of the handy features, necessary in fact, on a sniper scope was the display that told you the distance to the target and the target's relative elevation. The raw data was displayed for the majority of snipers who eschewed the fallible auto-adjuster and preferred to make the range/elevation/windage adjustments themselves. While the range finder worked on a laser reflection system, the elevation readout used a gyroscope and the data from the range-finder. However, it could be set to give the data in degrees, not delta elevation.

Montag activated the scope view on his HMD and panned across the opposite side of the Ring, directly above him. He zoomed in as far as he could and looked for a landmark precisely 90.00 degrees above horizontal.

89.954… 89.997… 90.000…

Montag blinked three times, ordering his HMD to save a high definition picture of what he was looking at.

Last night, Montag had worked out a simple navigation system for tonight's journey. By memorizing the point diametrically opposite on the Ring from Beta Base, and then measuring its offset as he traveled, he could calculate his position on the Ring to within a kilometer. Now all he needed was the Ring's diameter and/or circumference. He already knew that the Autumn was 115 klicks downspin. It would be easy.

But it was funny, when he thought about it. Montag had murdered, perjured, tortured, and more. But this would be the first time he'd deserted the Corps. All of his transgressions had been curbed in the name of self-preservation, the preservation of his unit, and the goal of staying in the Corps. Through that, he could keep killing the Covenant. Originally, because it had been his job. Then he'd slowly found that he couldn't function in real life, outside and away from the beauty of military life. Now… there was no one reason.

Montag sighed, relaxed in the bed of ferns and disconnected his HMD. He flipped the unit up and exposed his right eye to unfiltered daylight, a rare treat. The surgeons had managed to save his eyesight after the incident in the Badlands, the Event, but the discoloration had been inevitable. That was another benefit of the military: the ice-blue badge of shame was easier to hide behind the helmet.

He shifted, reached behind his back and pulled out a rock and a few twigs that were digging into the unarmored part of his shoulders. The discomfort was physical and mental, but tonight's mission was now his sole objective in life, as distasteful as deserting was. Last night's epiphany had granted Montag meaning, would validate the past four years of his life.

Ordinary people sought to gain immortality through their children, the way nature intended, but that path was closed to Montag. Great men and women were written about by historians. Certainly, Montag felt he was interesting enough to warrant a footnote in history, that a historian would eventually pour through the records and find out how eventful Montag's life had been. But humanity would never again produce another historian, not with the xenocidal legions of death at the doorstep of Earth.

The only path left was to build a monument unto himself. So long as the Covenant union existed, which would certainly be for ages, he would be the Destroyer. The one who burned the shrine to their heathen gods. He would, of course, be nameless and faceless, but he would be larger than life. He would earn the eternal hatred of scores of generations of aliens he despised, perhaps the best way to become legendary.

But immortality was only a side goal. It was a matter of retribution; an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life.

He reached under his head for his backpack, which he had been using for a pillow. His hand probed deep inside, searching the lower pockets for a rucksack. It wasn't very big, just big enough for a book, an actual book of paper and binding and ink. A long flap lay over the zippered opening, extending halfway down to the bottom of the bag. Montag unclipped the flap, revealing a row of medals neatly clipped to the leather. The purple heart, for when he had first dislocated his arm. Another purple heart, for when five ribs and an orbit had been permanently lost and replaced with ceramic. A silver star, awarded posthumously to Sergeant Clancy's squad; except Montag had been found alive later. The Iron Shield, awarded weeks after the Event.

Just above the medals were the trophies. The very tip of a Hunter spine, the armor was razor sharp, but the organic materials had been cleaned out a long time ago. The other trophy was a scope, an optic-electric model with the lenses and mirrors crushed. The final trophy, folded up in its case, was a slightly tattered flag.

It's hard to say what medals mean to soldiers; it doesn't mean the same thing for each individual. At the most basic level, they are a source of pride, a record and testament to their sacrifices. But, in Montag's case, it was a record of who he had been, the pride his homeland and government had in him. But he wasn't interested in the medals at the moment; his fingers rested over them for a brief second.

Past the zipper, inside the rucksack was a Bible, a New International Version with a broken spine.

Montag had believed in God, had been raised as such, and still believed in Him. But the idea of a kind, loving God was as alien to Montag as the enemies he killed, and almost as hated. What kind of God would allow the xenocide of Humanity to happen? What kind of God would build up Mankind and destroy them so thoroughly and effectively, like a kid with his sand castle?

Not a God of forgiveness, the one Montag had learned of in his youth. A God Montag could hate…

Beatty had talked about this, once. _"The most dangerous book known to Mankind,"_ He'd said, leafing through an archaic King James they'd found_. "Give a man a few lines of verse, and he's Lord of all Creation. A few words of right and wrong, and they're ready to chop off heads, knock down women and children, blow up Parliament. Wrong becomes Right when they're working for the Ultimate Right."_

The Lieutenant had always gotten philosophical after killing, although he had always tended to be verbose. While Rome burned, Nero fiddled. While San Lorenz crumbled, Beatty had lectured, but only during lulls in the fighting.

"_Look, Montag. Where in this shithole do you see 'Love thy neighbor' practiced? You think Jesus Christ crucified himself so these Pequinos could go out and slaughter each other's children? They don't even bother reading the whole thing through. Maybe then they'd see how full of contradictions it is. But no, they just use the Bible for what its best at: Saying whatever the Hell they want it to say."_

Montag hadn't replied then, had just soaked it right in. Maybe he'd been too busy picking off Innies and their Civvy shields to care. But now, he couldn't help but wonder at the difference between what Beatty had said, and what he'd heard a Priest say years before that. Or maybe he'd simply been a deacon.

Whoever he was, he and Montag had gotten into a discussion of God and the War on one of Montag's earlier Slipspace trips.

"_Yes,"_ he'd admitted._ "The Bible can be used by laymen to say anything. But the only fault I see is in the people abusing it. God's Word is different. The Bible can be paraphrased and quoted to say whatever they want it to say, but God's Word is the entirety of the Bible, and its meaning is clear when you invest the time to read it yourself."_

"_The most dangerous book in existence, giving meaning and drive to all sorts of psychopaths," _Beatty reiterated._ "Plague and Pestilence, Crusade and Judgment. Thou shalt not, Thou shalt, Thou art."_

"_It's like medicine," _the Priest would have replied._ "It can cure, or it can be used to make amphetamines. But what is it _supposed_ to be used for?"_

"_Snake oil. A placebo for today's ills."_

"_It doesn't cure the body. It heals the soul, it saves the soul."_

"SHUT UP!" Montag raged, to the invisible specters of the past. Specters long dead and far away.

The Bible had fallen on its spine, opening to the book of Proverbs. Halfway through that book was a note, folded and tucked in there twelve years ago. It wasn't a very long note, compared to the mail he'd exchanged with Vera through the Interlink, but she'd given it to him before he'd first shipped out. He read it frequently, chained forever to a world that had departed. The Cyrillic script was faded, the paper lined from being folded and unfolded so many times.

Alternatively a salve for his broken soul, and a heavy weight upon it. A message of hope, a chain of guilt, of what-ifs and should-haves. Much like the Bible it came in.

_Gui,_

_I don't want you to come home with honors or medals or war stories. Come home safe and sound, that will be enough for me. I look forward to seeing you in four years, being together without worries._

_Vera_

* * *

**HQ Room, 0826 hours**

Major Nathan T. Sherman sucked down the third cup of instant coffee this morning. For a few minutes, the coffee, as hot and black as it was, would chase away the feelings of inadequacy, the nagging doubts that had kept him tossing and turning during his four hour nap. He kept thinking that there was more to be done, strategies and tactics that eluded him.

Sure, he'd adapted after last nights attack, but the Covenant still held the initiative, and wouldn't stay dumb forever.

If things went as planned, which they wouldn't, Beta would merge with Alpha, combining for full strength before trying to get off the Ring. Major Sherman already had the beginnings of a plan, something to do with the cruiser they'd rescued Keyes from. But when they moved over the the Mesa at Alpha base, at least most of the burden of command would be off his shoulders.

He got up from his seat at the communications console and looked around the room. Round, angular, with partitions jutting out of the walls. It was like many of the rooms on Halo, except that it was jammed with communications gear and computers. Through the bustle of Navy technicians, Sherman noticed a lone Marine studying the projection of Halo on one of the walls, with accompanying cartographic information.

Major Sherman slowly shambled over to the Marine in question, other things on his mind.

"You're the one who got jumped by the Elite, right?"

"Da."

"Don't do that again anytime soon."

Major Sherman was tired and worried, preoccupied with the assault on the Silent Cartographer. The danger of deserting didn't occur to him until later. By then, it was too late.

* * *

**Hangar, 0835 Hours**

In civilian life, engineers spend most of their time designing, spent the rest of their time building, and were occasionally called in to destroy something. Military engineers did the exact opposite; Jonesy often thought they should come up with another name for the job. Most of his career had been spent destroying stuff, the rest of the time had been spent in construction. When planning took place, it rarely kept pace with the construction.

Civilian engineers built bridges that stood for decades, and handled thousands of cars per day. Jonesy assembled bridges that were used for a week, and carried dozens of tanks.

Civilian engineers designed airports that serviced passenger airliners and cargo carriers. Jonesy had once helped lay down a tarmac for Albatrosses. It had been glassed thirty-six hours after the asphalt dried.

What had surprised him the most was how much he loved his job. He'd never been much of an outside person until he signed up, and doing new things from day to day beat the Hell out of studying at a community college. He loved the smell of cordite, and loved seeing things blow up as much as any ten-year old boy. And if hauling a gun around putting up with cranky armourers was the price he had to pay, then so be it.

But on the other hand, there were so many more interesting and effective weapons out there, besides the assault rifle. None of them, unfortunately, were real. The EH-24 Pararifle from Castle Wulvenstien: 2242, the Combat Rifle from Disk, the Pulse Rifle from Fringe Space…

Jonesy was rudely snapped out of his reverie as he saw Montag looking in his direction. He shifted nervously, looking for somewhere he could go and look too busy to be interrupted. He didn't hate Montag per se, but the sniper gave him the creeps. That cold, clammy feeling you got when you watched those documentaries about serial killers or terrorists… or even Stanley Milgram.

All hopes that Montag was merely on his way to the armory were dispelled when Montag spotted Jonesy and strode up. Jonesy didn't get so much as a 'good morning'.

"Did you get the EFPs manufactured?"

It took Jonesy a moment to remember what Montag was talking about: he'd forgotten about the EFPs. That wasn't to say that he'd forgotten to make them. You don't to that when you are given the 'request' at gunpoint. No, the fact that Jonesy had followed through with his 'agreement' had slipped his mind overnight, while he was busy doing other stuff.

"Yeah, I've got them. How about I get back to you with them in a few minutes?"

"Just meet me outside."

Montag left Jonesy and continued on his rout to the armory. Despite his habit of sleeping near his weapons, Montag still needed the ammo. And he wanted a feel for how the munitions were being stored. If he walked up to the armory tonight and requested half a dozen MREs, medikits, and enough ammo to start WWIII, they'd detain him on the spot. He'd need to steal the supplies with a minimum of commotion and time spent.

To his surprise, however, somebody had rearranged the crates and racks of guns into something resembling an actual armory. They'd even stripped down a rack and made a service counter.

"Hello?"

"Hey," Montag greeted the armourer. "Did you do all of this by yourself?"

"Yup," the armourer grunted morosely, recalling last night's bout of insomnia. "Couldn't sleep, had to do something. What can I do for you?"

Before Montag could answer, the armourer answered his own question. "The S2 AM? We don't have much for it."

Montag's heart skipped a beat, and then it was in his throat. There was no way he'd get through the next engagement without a pack full of ammunition for the Rifle.

"We're running low on ammunition?"

"Relax, we got more S2 ammo than you know what to do with. I meant we don't have much for variety. Just the standard chocolate and vanilla."

The armourer was referring to the standard APFSDS rounds, and their fletchette counterparts. Penetrators and Shredders. Explosive, hollowpoint, and other exotic forms of rifle bullets were missing from the Autumn. Montag had barely remarked on this when the armourer launched into a tirade.

"It's not just the ammo, you know. It's the guns too! No BR-55s, and only handguns for sidearms! Shotguns only have spread shot, and you know those 45mm grenade launcher attachments for shotties and aye-arrs?"

Montag smirked. "We don't have them."

"_We don't frikkin' have them!_ And darn it all, the M19 rockets don't have tracking sensors, just solid heads! _How the frikkin' HELL are we supposed to fight a war with sticks and stones!_"

By this time, Montag had the armourer pegged as someone who only wanted to talk, and didn't care if someone was talking back. Probably neurotic too. The best thing to do was to nod your head and agree to whatever he said, and wait for the storm to blow over.

The armourer returned with the requested ammunition, still jabbering away.

"You know why we have this crap to shoot with, right?"

Yes, Montag did. He didn't say so, though.

"Think about it: the Autumn got a nice paint job and some rewiring, but nothing major, right? It's still outdated, and nearly useless. The weapons are nearly the same. And don't get me started on the vehicles: the iconic ones the civvies drool over are here, but nothing you don't want colonials to get. No artillery, IFVs, or gunships. And so, the Pillar of Autumn and her hapless crew were probably off to teach a bunch of colonial rednecks how to shoot, goose-step, and call themselves a militia."

It was an interesting, if misinformed conclusion, and rather amusing to boot. Apparently, the guy hadn't been looking too closely at the Pillar.

"You think so?"

"Yeah. Some stupid governer probably took a look at Siberia Prime and decided he wanted a private army of his own. And he ain't going to do his job until the UNSC bends over backwards and complies, when they should just let the greasebag get glassed. Kind of daft if you ask me. Colonials just get in the way when they try to fight. But so long as they don't have the big equipment, they ain't a problem 'cause they don't stick around."

Montag's good humor evaporated, leaving a cold stony mask behind.

"Will that be everything?"

Montag blinked. He was back on the customer side of the counter, the armourer was still alive and in one piece, and the Handgun was on the counter, unloaded.

"Yes, uh, thank you."

"Good. Have a nice day."

* * *

**Spinward Edge of Tarmac, 0850 Hours**

"When did Morris say he'd be back?"

"He didn't."

"Fine. He's got five more minutes. Then he's late." Kanoff sighed as he shifted and settled deeper into the driver's seat of the Warthog.

The seats in a Warthog are something of an enigma. Since the Warthog was made by the lowest bidder, logic dictated that the parts should be cheap and minimal. And if any surplus money was spent, it would be spent on better armor or tires. And yet the seats were as comfortable and ergonomic as the ones in a luxury Civ Hog. All told, however, he'd gladly trade the seats for doors, a roof, and gunner protection. Nothing made a man (Or a woman) feel safer than the uparmor package. Even if it made the Warthog less sexy.

His Warthog was one of three idling halfway between the tarmac and the treeline. There were two other groups of three, surrounded by their respective squads. In ten minutes, the shift would change, and the sentries at the land bridges would be relieved.

Each of the three land bridges (spread around the plateau in nigh perfect radial symmetry) were to be guarded by two squads at a time, with three Warthogs, a Scorpion, and at least one Ghost. More troops, vehicles, and the Banshees were being held back at the base, ready for deployment to the site where they were needed when they were needed.

It was almost sacrilegious, thinking about running and gunning on a morning like this. The sun of this solar system had come out from behind the far edge of the Ringworld, casting it's rays through the scant clouds on the 'horizon'. The cool alpine air was accentuated by the gentle breeze rolling across the Plateau from the upspin mountain range. The smell of the alien pine trees was strong, drowning out the fumes from the Scorpion nearby. Around the tarmac, the long green grass glistened with dew, alien blood, and pieces of Banshee.

Kanoff felt moved to comment on the beauty of the morning, but Da Vega, back in the gunner's position, beat him to it. Unfortunately, she had something else to say.

"What are they doing with that Scorpion?"

Up on the tarmac, flanked by three turtleshell bunkers, several pillboxes and a few Warthogs was a Scorpion. The turret had been removed and parted out, but a few engineers and Navy crewmen were still crawling around on it. Kanoff had no idea what they were doing.

Jonesy waddled up and climbed into the passenger seat, carefully setting a trio of large metal drums behind his seat.

"Sorry I'm late," he apologized. "Somebody screwed up the mirror in the bathroom. Looks like they used a knife or something."

"By the way!" he shouted at the Twins in the next Warthog over. "Your cat is nuts!"

Da Vega nudged him in the back with her boot. "Hey, what are they doing up there?"

Jonesy had to twist around in his seat to look at the Scorpion in question. He wasn't sure either, but he could take a guess.

"I think they're trying to make it into an artillery piece. I saw them tearing apart trashed Banshees for the fuel rod cannons earlier."

"We know how to do that?" Kanoff was completely baffled. The last time he'd checked, the UNSC didn't even know how a needler fired.

"Banshees are just like a car or a tank; any Covenant vehicle is made out of smaller parts and systems that can be taken apart for repairs, or put together on an assembly line." Jonesy watched as the engineers tested the Scorpion to see how well the remains of the turret could elevate. "My guess is that they're trying to make some sort of Katyusha."

"And just what is that in English?"

"It's not English, and I don't know what it means. It's sort of a… uh… Wait a second."

A lone Ghost flitted across the tarmac, dropped off the edge, and pulled up expertly alongside the Warthog. This was hardly the first time Montag had sat in one of these, and he knew how to carry his weapons on it too. His backpack was thrown across the seatback like a saddlebag, and a holster for the Rifle had been made from a torn pair of pants and a liberal application of duct tape.

"Hey, Montag! Explain what a Katyusha is!"

Montag surprised everybody by smiling fondly.

"It's civilian-made artillery. A pickup or a Civ Hog has a turreted rack welded to the bed, and then a frame with twelve parallel rails is mounted. You can fire two dozen rockets at a time and saturate an area three miles away."

"Sounds primitive."

"Yeah, it is. But it works when the UNSC won't give the militias what they need."

"That's what the Army is for, isn't it?"

"It just might surprise you all, but some people feel that their homes are worth fighting for. There's some kind of belief that militias in general can't be trusted, when the ones based in the Outer Colonies were who you had to watch out for. Inner Colonials are pretty loyal."

Minutes passed by, filled with idle chatter. Kanoff actually got around to talking about how beautiful he thought the Ringworld was, Da Vega gave a few comments back, and the twins talked Montag into telling them where "Katyusha" originated from.

Just when Montag powered up the Ghost to return to base and see why Morris was taking so long to get out of HQ, the sergeant showed up and climbed into the twin's Hog.

"Sorry I'm late."

"That's alright, sir. We're used to being ordered to hurry up and wait."

Morris gallantly shrugged off the sarcasm and took a head count. "If there's no objections, I say we go relieve the sentries on Third Bridge."

"No, sir. I think they'd be happy to see us."

* * *

**Upspin Mountain Range, 550 meters from Land Bridge, 0900 Hours**

Field Marshal Mortumas 'Kandonomee relaxed, letting the breeze sooth his worries and carry his soul away.

Early in Sangheili history, before the encounter with the San'Shyuum and their teachings, stories and legends explaining the existence and origin of the Forerunner artifacts had been plentiful and diverse. Now they were theologically incorrect, but still survived as prime examples of intellectual prose and high art.

A certain favorite of Mortumas's held that the Forerunner had lived in a verdant garden, lush with rich, loamy soil and fertile trees, ranging from an endless amber plain to white-capped mountains. Trees and vines bore fruit granting beauty and graceful age, feeding game whose meat granted knowledge and wisdom.

Over this Garden of Eden, the Forerunners were shepherds, gatherers, and hunters, tending to the garden by day, feasting and reveling and resting at night. Brave and selfless individuals forsook this life of plenty, leaving the garden to sow clues for the Sangheili to follow back to the garden.

This myth flourished and inspired generations of scholars, artists, and poets, despite its lack of appeal to the warrior nature of the Sangheili. But it died out, unable to compete with the true story of the Forerunners. The tales of ascension to Godhood appealed to universal desires: greed, ambition, and the desire for power. How could mere beauty compete with avarice?

Mortumas 'Kandonomee knew that this particular myth needed not to have been eradicated. Halo _was_ the garden; water and earth begat life, with which the Forerunners sculpted masterpieces. Halo was the penultimate creation of the Forerunner, sure to inspire the greatest architects and artists to new heights. After the human taint had been wiped clean.

All who follow the Path will be saved, and the Path was a wide one, with room for many species of many devotions. Some believed in humility before the artifacts of the Forerunner, while others honored the Holy Ones with rituals and sacrifice. Mortumas's belief was a practical devotion: the Forerunners bestowed blessings and wrote of the future, but they liked to see initiative, and favored ability. A Prophet's blessing was not assurance of success, but well-drilled troops and adequate planning was.

As such, the Gods were on his side this morning.

The Human's position was enviable, if not desirable. It was accessible only by the three land bridges, and powerful guns would eliminate any hostile aircraft that dared to fly above the treeline, as Qvan 'Illionomee had learned not three hours before. Attacking one bridge would give the Humans time to focus their defenses, perhaps even to evacuate and flee to a deeper warren. Attacking all sides required coordination and would dilute the available forces.

So be it.

Over the night, Mortumas and his adjutant had put in what was widely considered to be a hard night's work. Favors had been called in, equipment had been procured, arms had been twisted, and arrangements had been made. Right now, no less than twelve Wraiths stood by, ready to bombard the human base. It was an extraordinary number under the circumstances, but actually the bare minimum for success. A greater number of Ghosts and Banshees were reserved for support, and additional troops had been moved in to cover for last night's losses. Unfortunately, they had not had the time to be properly trained, and would have to fight separately from his normal forces. Even now, many of them were still being prepared for combat, drilled with the battle plan.

But by now, news of Qvan's hopeless cavalry charge would have reached the Prophet in charge of the Fleet of Particular Justice. The matter of High Charity's impending arrival and the need to eradicate human forces would weigh heavily upon the Prophet. To tell the Hierarchs that human forces had intruded only to be decisively dealt with would get the Prophet off with only a minor scolding. But to be brought before the Assembled Covenant and inform them that they were still hunting down human warriors… such a fate did not bear contemplation.

However, Mortumas 'Kandonomee's message that his forces were on site and ready to lay siege would be a godsend, a lifeline. The Prophet's position, affluence, and wellbeing were at stake. His life and the lives of his extended family depended upon Mortumas's actions in the next few hours. A response of approval was inevitable.

People were so easy to manipulate. Someone should write a book about it. Indeed, it shares many traits with battlefield maneuvers: High ground, flanking, enemy position, guessing the opponent's strategy.

But in a way, it hardly mattered to Mortumas whether the Prophet went along or not. It hardly mattered whether everything went right, or if the humans prevailed in the upcoming conflict. It mattered, but he accepted that he had little control over the outcome. He had prepared as best as a mortal could, and the plan was as flawless as a mortal could conceive. It was up to the Gods and his ability to decide the outcome.

_Shon'ai._ The blade was cast, and Mortumas stood ready to receive. It was something few humans could comprehend, the ability and willingness of Elites to throw themselves to fate. Not without preparation, but without reservation. It was one of a thousand misunderstandings in this war, and not the least significant.

Behind him, hoofbeats approached through the dewy grass.

"Honored?" spoke Vlar 'Koloamee, aide-de-camp and adjutant to Mortumas 'Kandonomee. Mortumas let a trinity of heartbeats pass before turning to address his pupil.

"The Prophet has replied, and communicates his fervent desire to speak of your success before the Hierarchs tomorrow."

Mortumas inclined his head. "So be it. Assume positions, initiate the attack on my mark."

As engines and weapons powered up throughout the valley, Mortumas trekked back to his command Spectre, gazing one last time at the curve of Halo from one horizon to the other, pondering what inspiration the Covenant artisans, scholars and artists could glean from the Forerunner's mightiest work. In his chest, his hearts beat the along with the drums of Fate, eager for the heat of the battle.

_Shon'ai._

* * *

**A/N: So... just what do y'all think will happen in the next chapter? It'll be interesting, with Montag preparing to desert, having second thoughts about leaving, and now the Covenant are getting ready to drop the hammer (It's actually easier to write, with less introspection and more violence) Also, feel free to comment on the characterization in this chapter.**

**In other news, I've written out the first few chapters to Nightmare, and will post it when I feel I have enough of a head start. But first, there's a oneshot coming up... inspired by ES's shocking interpretation of the Halo, displayed at E3 '08 (Sometimes, it seems like they have 13 year olds on the design team)**

** And no, it won't feature the Cyclops. It'll be about a more disturbing trend in the Haloverse.**

**Thanks for reading, don't forget the other half of R&R.**


	21. Jericho

_My Fellow Citizens:  
As the news reports you are no doubt listening to now confirm, a Covenant expeditionary force arrived in high orbit __not twenty minutes ago__. Through the dedication and ingenuity of the men and women who man the orbital defenses day and night, the enemy was soundly defeated._

_We have been preparing for this day for a generation, under the very eyes of the UNSC. I know that, while we have toasted to this day, we have asked ourselves what we will do when the news comes. Will we run and accept charity, or will we stand our ground? I too have had these doubts, but I know that no Siberian will ever consign their families to the squalor and decay of UN refugee camps. We will not forsake our world for an uncertain future doomed to poverty, not until every last effort has been exhausted to drive the invaders back across the cold void of space. Whereas others urge us to flee to 'safety', we shall stay, we shall fight, and we shall serve as a beacon of hope to all of Mankind!_

_From this day forward, let us cast aside the petty differences that have sapped our strength as a society throughout the War. We must not fight as Unionists or Tradesmen, nor under Didacticism or Consolidationism, but as Siberians, under the banner of Humanity. Together, we shall make this conflict the Stalingrad of our time!_

_We shall not fail or falter; we shall not weaken or tire... Neither the sudden shock of battle nor the long-drawn trials of vigilance and exertion will wear us down.__ We shall win through, no matter the cost!

* * *

_**0910 hours, 20th September, 2552 (Military Calendar)****  
Beta Base Plateau, Inland of Land Bridge A  
Halo**

"This is it?"

"Yeah, that's what you asked for."

He sounded nervous. Montag had heard about some college engineering fraternities and sororities, how some of them required ridiculous entrance exams. Pointless things, like filing a perfect cube fifty millimeters on a side using a hunk of aluminum and a small nail file. But from all appearances, Jonesy had put as much effort into the EFPs as he would with the aluminum cube.

Montag slowly turned the EFP over in his hands. The casing looked like it had been polished to mirror smoothness. The concave copper plate had been neatly pressed and shined, and then filed down around the edges to tolerances of one thousandth of a centimeter. Jonesy had even created a stand and added wire gunsights.

"The casing is one-centimeter armor plate bent around in a near-perfect cylinder, with a double-layer of armor resin coating the inside," Jonesy explained. "The base is the same, but with a toothed seam. We want the cap blowing off before the base."

Montag examined the sides of the EFP, a drum half a meter wide and just as tall. He couldn't see the spot where Jonesy had joined the edges of the armor plate and welded them together. He remarked as such, and Jonesy grinned.

"I know."

"Isn't that a lot of work for something that will only be used once?"

That only elicited a casual shrug from Jonesy "I have no experience with IEDs, and I didn't have time to do tests. The only way I can ensure performance is to go overboard on all the specs."

A talented engineer and a machinist, Montag realized, but also a person who genuinely loved his work. A Stakhanovite: One who took pleasure in producing quality work, and who employed efficiency techniques to work faster. Back on Siberia Prime, he'd be the perfect employee for General Dynamics, with guaranteed rapid promotion to foundry supervisor or factory manager. Hell, if he didn't watch out in the above scenario, Consolidated Industries might have taken a gene sample and mass produced him.

"How accurate is it?"

Jonesy didn't like this question. "Best I can do is a spread of three meters at 300 meters. I could make it more accurate if I could do some sample shots, but we don't have enough copper plate. I had to manufacture the third plate on my own."

That part didn't make sense to Montag: Jonesy might as well as have told him he won the jackpot in a UN lottery, or found a diamond ring while cleaning the crud from the bottom of his boots. How the Hell was anybody supposed to fabricate copper plate on this Ring, without tools to do so?

"You're kidding me!"

Jonesy's grin returned in force. "No I'm not!"

"How the Hell did you do that?"

"I used a steel exhaust coverlet from a Pelican's engine for a crucible. It's designed to withstand temperatures way above the melting point of copper, so I put copper scraps and wire in it, nosed the business end of a plasma pistol into the scraps, and charged it up. It puts out enough ambient heat to melt copper if you do it right and contain the heat."

Montag blinked in bewilderment. He'd seen plasma pistols used for everything, from cooking meat to melting snow for drinking, but this was the first time he'd heard of anything like this.

In any case, the spread on the EFP gave Montag a better than even chance of hitting a Wraith at five-hundred yards. Not as accurate as Innie bombmakers were back on Lusitania or other planets, but those terrorists had more practical experience with their explosives.

Montag set the EFP on the ground and clasped Jonesy's hand, gave it an earnest shake and ignored the involuntary shudder.

"Great work."

"Thanks."

"No, I mean it," Montag insisted. "Coming from me, that's a hard-won complement."

"Well, I guess it must be." Jonesy was a little more sincere this time.

Montag spent the better half of five minutes trying to secure the EFPs to the Ghost before he gave the exercise up as futile. The Ghost just wasn't intended to carry cargo of any size, and he was already having trouble hauling his backpack and the Rifle.

He tried something else instead. He slung the sack carrying the EFPs and walked to the other side of the valley, where a Warthog was being improperly used as a stepping stool.

Montag had been both surprised and exuberant beyond all measure when he heard that the Pillar of Autumn had Artemis systems in storage, and some of these systems had been recovered. The Artemis system was a series of optical and motion sensors. Soldiers wore tags that broadcast identification codes on rotating radio frequencies, and those tags could transmit vital signs and intelligence to commanding officers in range of the Artemis system. The optical sensors and motion detectors could be positioned to survey an area, and smart programs would differentiate friend from foe in the area. The system was compatible with a wide variety of hardware, from body armor to automated turrets to Argus drones, HMDs, and every mine in the UNSC arsenal.

The Artemis system had not been set up by the previous squad, leaving the work to the current shift. The sensors had to be fixed in position and camouflaged; the wider the area that they could pan, the better. So Private Kanoff had backed the Warthog up broadside against a cliff wall and was standing on the roll cage, gluing the Artemis camera where it could monitor the other side of the chasm. Da Vega was presumably off doing something else. Idly, Montag realized that this was the first time he'd seen them separated by more than ten meters since meeting on the Autumn.

"Hey! Could I leave these in here?"

Kanoff glanced down at the sack Montag was already unloading into the turret bed. One of the first things he noticed was the "Danger: High Explosive" label that Jonesy had stenciled onto the drums.

"What are those?" he asked, a little too urgently.

"EFPs. Jonesy made them." Montag answered, without answering the question.

"Well," Kanoff crouched down, grabbed the roll bar behind the driver's seat, and adroitly stepped into the bed. "Is this a request or is this an order?"

"It's whatever you want it to be." When Sierra and Hotel squads had relieved the previous shift, Sergeant Morris had briefed everyone on Montag's new role. That had required Montag to explain what a Sniper-Scout had been back on Siberia Prime, and how the role was different from his previous stint as Sniper-Psychopath. _"Excuse me, but I'm the unofficial second in command now. If I tell you to do something, your chances of survival are much better if you do what I say and don't ask questions. So the biggest thing that's changed is that I'll be modifying Morris's orders, and issuing some of my own."_ Montag hadn't said that in as many words, but that's what it boiled down to.

Needless to say, the news had gone over significantly better with the other squad. They hadn't been working with Montag for the past twenty-four hours.

With Kanof and Da Vega, however, it seemed like the lifesaving rescue on the Autumn and the lukewarm camaraderie later had just barely made up for the earlier pyromania and remoteness. That was a start, at least.

"In that case, I'll take it as an order."

"Thanks." Montag said, flashing a brief grin of relief. "I'll be back for them later."

* * *

**Treeline, 0918 Hours**

Da Vega sauntered up to the Warthog and climbed into the passenger seat. She offered one of the two canteens in her hands to Kanoff, who gratefully accepted the offer. The Canteen was filled with cool stream water that the Marines had been enjoying throughout the morning. The best part was that it didn't just taste like fresh spring water, but the bacteria present on Halo were comparatively primitive, so there was no danger of getting 'travel sickness' from drinking the local water.

If the Marines thought this through, they'd realize that this didn't mean that the bacteria were harmless, but few of them had a degree in Medical Pathology.

"How'd it go?"

"Fine." Da Vega had been given several motion detectors and cameras to place, but it had been left to her discretion where to place the equipment. Anywhere out of the way with good coverage of the valley would work. "I got bored and placed the last one on the streamshark's fin."

She was referring to a large rock planted in the middle of the stream from Beta Base. It looked like a shark's fin jutting out of the water, but if the shark had been proportional to the fin, it would have been way too large to swim in the shallow stream.

"That must have been a fun climb."

"You should try it."

"I guess you've done a bit of rock climbing before?"

"No. But in middle school, gang initiation involved climbing to the thirteenth floor of a building and tagging it. Whatever you paint, it has to be big enough to see from the ground."

"So, you scaled skyscrapers with suction cups?"

Da Vega laughed. "No, we were gangbangers, not cat burglars. We tagged the masonry buildings, not the steel and glass ones. The best way to get up there was through the fire escapes or stone edging at the corners. And then you got bonus points for climbing back down before the pigs showed up."

"Wait, how did you go from gang fights to boot camp? I thought they didn't let gangbangers in."

Da Vega shrugged pensively, ejected the magazine from her assault rifle, pried the casing apart and inspected the rounds inside. "It's not like playing Vehicular Homicide on the Nextbox. The people you go clubrapping with will have no problem going home and gang raping your sister. And when it's this street gunning down that street with guns the URF sells for the drugs the URF also sells…"

She shrugged. "Life gets pretty screwed up."

Kanoff nodded, understanding what she was talking about. Drugs, weapons, and the URF went hand in hand. On the outer colonies, where available farmland is abundant and few people are friendly to the UNSC, rebel groups planted acres of cocaine, poppies and hemp vines, to be made into cheap drugs for export. In the inner colonies, smaller cells manufactured methamphetamine, LSD, and neuroin. The varied products were sold in urban environments, sapping the UNSC's resources into fighting drug wars. Gangs and mobs rose along with crime and unemployment rates, and the URF was all too happy to sell guns along with the drugs. It was a twofold profit for the URF, a migraine for the UNSC, and ruination for the afflicted populations, from which Da Vega came.

Kanoff had come from Ceres, a planet with no real identity, where every kind of industry did well, but none dominated. He hadn't grown up with the drug problem, only grew up and watched it unfold on TV. Like all such disasters, it had a distant feel to it: he just shook his head, remarked about how terrible it was, and changed the channel. But now he was close to someone who had been personally afflicted by the disaster he watched and it felt… odd.

"So, you just washed your hands of the whole thing and left?"

"Yeah." Da Vega answered. "Went back to school, got my G.E.D, and ran from that hellhole first chance I got."

"What about the folks? Don't you have a family?"

"Do you keep tabs on your second cousins?" Da Vega snapped.

"No."

"Right. If you need me, I'll be prepping the minigun." The magazine was reassembled, and left next to the assault rifle on the dashboard. Kanoff was left thinking of something to say to salvage the conversation.

"So, did you have to get any gang tattoos?"

Da Vega paused halfway over the roll cage. "Yeah. That's the one thing VH got right."

"Can I see them?"

"Not at the moment."

"Not at the moment?"

"Yeah. If I am going to show them off, I'd have to take my fatigues off. And when I do that, you'd better be doing the same thing."

Kanoff grinned wolfishly. "I'll remember that."

"I'm sure y- What the Hell are these?"

'The wha- oh, the EFPs? Montag said to look after them. I guess that means he'll be back for them."

"And you did not see the "Danger: High Explosive" labels?"

"Well, yeah… you got a problem or something?"

"Yes. He just reminds me of some of the crack addicts on the streets, the ones who enjoyed the killing and the shootings." Once again, she laughed, but it was more reserved, more guarded. "Except he enjoys killing the Covies, so I guess that's supposed to make it OK, in some twisted way."

* * *

**Left cliff, sniper position Charlie. 0922 Hours**

Montag's fingers trembled as he inspected his open hand. There were a number of possible explanations, ranging from hunger to malnutrition to fatigue. He could will his fingers to be still, just like he could will his heartbeat to slow and his breathing to stop for a few seconds. All a part of making that difficult, long-distance shot.

What wouldn't he give for the same control over his mind.

"So, you understand what we're trying to achieve here?"

"Yeah," Private Lincoln answered sullenly.

"And you understand how to mark targets with the Artemis System?"

"Yes. You only explained it twice."

"Good. I'll be off then."

Lincoln raised a hand, clumsily disturbing the camouflage he had draped over himself. At this distance and elevation, it wouldn't matter unless they had Banshees flying overhead. But if that happened, they had more problems than an exposed sniper. It meant that their air defense was completely compromised.

"Wait a moment. What I don't understand is why we don't blow the bridge in the first place."

Montag thought for a moment, tried to find a way to explain it. "Ever hear of a place called Iwo Jima?"

"No."

"It was an island held by the Imperialist Japanese during World War II. They defended it fanatically because it was considered to be a sister to their Homeland. But when the Allies invaded, they let the first wave of landing craft beach, and they didn't open fire until the beaches were filled with Marines. What do you think that did to the Allies' morale?"

Lincoln shrugged.

"Another thing: the Japanese snipers would climb up palm trees, lash themselves to the apex, and spend days waiting for Marines to come into sight." Montag paused for a second, amused by the expression on Lincoln's face. "Now, why is that a stupid thing to do?"

"Well, you're kind of exposed and-"

"Never, ever hide in a tree or a tower when your enemy can shoot back. It's fine for cover, but you have nowhere to go when they start open fire."

"Right. Which is why I'm up here in the middle of a cliff, ten meters from the ground."

"Hey, they can't shoot at you unless they can grow wings and fly. And if Buggers do show up, duck under the alcove behind you."

With that bit of unhelpful advice, Montag left Lincoln and walked back to his Ghost. Along both sides of the valley (Montag thought of the area surrounding the land bridges as a wide valley with forested areas at both ends and a clearing in the middle, split by a chasm and connected again by the land bridge) were rocky cliffs. Some you had to climb to get to, some had trails leading to them, like the one Lincoln was on.

Montag casually mulled over his expectations for the shift, should the Covenant attack in the next four hours.

"_Which you know they will."_

Visions of Jackal formations were quickly abandoned as Montag ducked and spun to his right, covering the path behind him with the Handgun. Nothing.

"_Get on the Ghost. Get the Hell out of here."_

Montag slowly backed down the path and made his way into the trees where he'd parked the Ghost.

"_If you don't go now, you won't get to the Pillar at all. The Covenant are coming, and you're wasting time."_

"I don't have enough ammunition to get me there!" Montag whispered desperately. Where was the voice coming from?

"Then walk back up the path and get it!" The voice startled Montag, causing him to trip on an extended root. He crawled and rolled onto his back. The Shadow stood above him, a man-like silhouette backlit by the light filtering through the trees, unless Montag stared directly at it.

Montag knew what the Shadow was talking about. He'd considered the action when he'd been instructing Lincoln. He'd planned it all out, the exact mechanics of hitting him over the head, holding him face-down and slipping the knife between the base of the skull and the first vertebrae. It would be a quick, quiet kill that would allow him to take Lincoln's ammunition and rations without anybody being the wiser.

And then he'd decided against it.

"Montag, I understand what you're thinking. You're a confirmed murderer; you couldn't care less about killing Lincoln. You just realized that if you blow the Autumn, you'll kill off Kanoff and Da Vega, and are just waiting for the Covenant to do the job."

"I'm a murderer," Montag thought bitterly, "But I'm not a mass murderer."

"You're already a mass murderer, Montag." The Shadow laughed. "Zima twenty-six. Three billion human lives gone."

Montag couldn't respond. He just crawled into the seat of the Ghost.

"Walk back up there and ram that knife into his neck. It's quick, it's clean, it's _necessary_. Take his ammo and get the Hell off this plateau. It's for us, Montag. It's for the six billion defenders of Siberia Prime. How can a hundred Marines stand in the way of that?"

Montag thought he could already feel himself stealthing back up the path. He could see himself ending a fellow human's life. But as he rolled over the body and reached for the ammunition belt, it wasn't Lincoln. It was Da Vega, or Kanoff, or Jonesy, or Morris.

What if the kill wasn't silent? What if he had to fight his way off the plateau and across the land bridge? What if he went up against the Twins, or the lovebirds? Could he shoot people he halfway respected? And what about Sergeant Morris, with his recent expression of utmost trust in Montag's character?

Montag blinked. He was still in his Ghost. He still had to walk back up the path if he wanted to kill Lincoln.

Instead, he fired up the Ghost and drove away.

* * *

**Land Bridge, 0923 Hours**

It was a long way down. If you fell off the land bridge, you'd probably have five seconds to look up and wave goodbye to the people watching you fall.

Jonesy shoved the thought from his mind and looked back at the pylons he'd secured his rappel line to. These were holes he'd bored into the rock of the land bridge, and then screwed in hooks and filled the gaps with armor resin. It would hold, but his imagination refused to believe it.

Armor resin was basically the superglue of the UNSC Marine Corps. Instead of replacing an entire section of armor to remove a bullet hole or plasma burn, mechanics often filled the cavity with armor resin straight from the tube. The putty would harden within seconds when exposed to an ultraviolet lamp, and would achieve hardness on par with ballistic armor.

The stuff was often used for more than just that: Marines used it for whatever it was good at, even fillings for cavities and repairing cracks in engine blocks. However, armor resin didn't always bond well to the surrounding material if dust or oil was present, and Jonesy was painfully aware of this. The armor resin would be the only thing between him and 8.74 seconds of freefall, assuming an Earth-normal gravity.

As he checked his rappel line for fraying, he made one final complaint to his audience.

"We could have just driven a Warthog onto the bridge and lowered me over."

"Yeah," Liz allowed. "But then you'd be entrusting your life to my sister's driving skills."

"Shut up!" June snarled.

"I suppose that's a bad thing?" Jonesy asked, grateful for a chance to delay his venture over the side.

"Just ask the cops back home. They dropped the speeding charges, but she still had to pay for the storefronts and the subway station."

"Forget I asked," Jonesy muttered as he pressed the 'unwind' button on the SCMT and lowered himself down.

"Liz, would you please stop hyperbolizing everything? I don't care how cute you think he is."'

"Hey, it's basically the truth. Behind the wheel, you _are_ public enemy number one."

"I'm not that bad!"

"Then why am I the one who always drives?"

Down below, where he couldn't hear the twins bickering, Jonesy unhooked the cordless drill from its bracket on the SCMT and bored into the rock. He paused every ten seconds to wait for the bridge to crack. Not that this was likely to happen, but he had this mental image of drilling into precisely the wrong place, and he would only watch in horror as a crack appeared, widened, and split the bridge in two. He'd fall down 754 meters (He'd measured) to the moat around the plateau with the two bridge halves slamming down on top of him. From the rubble he would emerge, only to stand by helplessly as fissures from the impact site spread and split Halo in half.

When he was done drilling, he sprayed the hole down with water and filled the hole with C-12. The gel filled the hole and bubbles of compressed (and inert) argon expanded, turning the thick liquid into a spongy foam. Then the argon diffused into the surrounding atmosphere, and was replaced with the air of Halo, which included a significant percentage of oxygen.

While this took place, Jonesy pushed a remote detonator deep into the C-12 and brushed dirt onto the surface, blending the explosives with the rest of the bridge. One spot down, seven more to go.

* * *

**Enemy Treeline, Hill Charlie. 0933 Hours**

Anybody unfamiliar with Mortumas 'Kandonomee would assume he was sleeping. Indeed, many have thought they could know such a great master by reading his family tree or following the reports of his victories, and many who met him walked away afterward marveling at the depths within this warrior. But far too many walked away thinking they had met the simple, albeit dedicated soldier they had expected to meet, because they had not the wit to delve deeper.

But only a pupil or a trusted subordinate would know that he had not fallen asleep in the seat of his command Spectre. He was strategizing, remembering. In his mind, he conjured a perfect image of the Plateau, studied from the moment he had been given his orders. He could probe the remembrance, imagine where the defenders strong points would be, imagine moves and countermoves branching off of each other, as well as the central course of action, the trunk of a branching tree, that he must take to ensure his success.

The survival of his troops, the breaching of enemy defenses, the crossing of the chasm, and the positioning of the Wraiths to bombard the enemy base and tarmac. Above all, how he must prevent the quarry from escaping via air.

All the myriad ways. How each moment built upon previous choices, each leading to a separate conclusion. But sometime Fate bound the paths and guided the pilgrim to a single destiny.

The driver of the Spectre was a seasoned warrior under Mortumas, and knew of the Field Marshal's unique method of strategizing, a mystic sort of inspiration in his view. With Vlar 'Koloamee commanding a separate attack force on a different side of the plateau, he had been temporarily promoted to adjutant. His duties were minor, as Mortumas had already made the strategic decisions: two Wraiths, a Ghost, and several lances were to be left out as "eye candy" for the Human's miniature drones. The rest of the attack force was to be hidden as best as they knew how.

His role was that of a steward, a regent, a watchman. The troops had to be kept prepared, dispatches from the other two attack forces had to be watched, and above all, the reinforcements had to be watched with the keen eye of a bird of prey. They were comparatively untrained, cumbersome, and could not work well together. As per the doctrines of the other Field Masters from which they had been borrowed, the reinforcements were trained to fight and sacrifice, but were not trained to wait and follow orders to the letter.

The driver's final order, but not his final duty, was to waken Mortumas when his apprentices were in position, as they were now. He hesitated for a moment, wondering what divine insight he was interrupting. And then he rapped on the seat, rousting the Field Marshal. He needed only scant familiarization with the situation before the order rumbled over his mandibles, like the echoing breath of an earthbound beast from deep within its subterranean lair.

"Attack."

* * *

**Treeline, 0937 Hours**

Gui Montag knew that routine killed. Settle into the same patrols while hunting Innies, and they would tailor a trap that would be a perfect fit for you. Fall into the same routine on sentry duty, and you got surprised more often than not.

So a lance of Grunts rushing into the clearing at the other end of the chasm was a welcome deviation from the last fifteen minutes. From his camouflaged position ahead of the Warthogs, he watched a second lance and smaller groups of Jackals follow the first. Before they completely cleared the trees, they milled about chaotically and regrouped. Now each Jackal was providing forward cover for two Grunts.

Montag licked his lips, bemused. It was like… well, there was no perfect analogy he could think of. It was a clever maneuver he'd seen before, but orchestrated by an amateur officer or by undisciplined troops. The Covenant should have reorganized before they were seen, instead of waiting until they got out into the open.

"Hold fire." Morris barked over the radio, unnecessarily, since he'd briefed both squads earlier. "Drivers, start the engines and get prepared to run."

Montag flipped his radio on. "Snipers, watch the treeline. Highlight anything that's purple or has shields. Fire when I say so."

Montag got green acknowledgment lights from the other three snipers. He panned through the treeline, not seeing anything within the dense foliage.

The Jackal-Grunt teams reached the land bridge. Under the aegis of the Jackal Shielding, the Grunts dropped a series of plasma barricades. Effectively, the Covenant were protected in a cloister of barricades, but were vulnerable to the snipers on high ground.

Back in the trees, more Covenant flooded into view. Five lances, with more Elites than the norm. At their flanks, four Ghosts raced to the land bridge, while the first group abandoned the safety of the cloister and raced across the bridge.

"Snipers! Mark Elites in second wave and wait for my OK!" As Montag gave the order, he placed the crosshairs of the Rifle over the first Ghost and pressed a button on his scope. The Artemis system had already spotted the Covenant, picked out he individual soldiers, and outlined them in red. As Montag marked the Elite, a sphere of his designated color hovered over the Ghost in the Marine's HMDs.

The first wave had cleared the bridge and was running towards the UNSC positions, firing their weapons wildly. Montag was no expert on alien facial expressions, but they were probably wondering where the withering hailstorm of bullets was going to come from. If they weren't being shot at by now, was something wrong?

The Ghosts flitted around the barricades and, unevenly spaced, raced over the land bridge in single file. The first one reached the end while the second and third were still in the middle. It was at this time that Morris hit the big red button that activated the explosives drilled into the bridge.

To call it a mere explosion would be like calling "Ode to Joy" mere music; in fact, it would be a dreadful insult to Jonesy's talent. The bridge was smote as if struck by all the pent up rage of God. Blistering explosions danced up and down the length of the bridge as it shattered into millions of infinitesimal pieces. Imagine what happens to a glass sculpture if it is hit by a dozen high-caliber bullets from all angles, simultaneously. Now imagine the same sort of thing happening, only to the bridge, with cluster munitions thrown in for effect. Needless to say, the Ghosts and Jackal groups still on the bridge were of no further concern.

While the blast wave was still resounding throughout the valley, Montag and Morris screamed into their mikes for the Marines to open fire. The first wave of Covenant was cut in half as the Artemis system activated Argemone land mines, and the gunfire from the Warthogs went through the survivors like a JOTUN harvester through a field of wheat. The snipers began shooting the Elites in the second wave, panicking most of the Grunts into huddling tighter against the plasma barricades.

Montag set his sights on the first Ghost, which had been picked up and carried a distance by the explosion. The driver was pushing it upright again-

CRACK! CRACK!

-but never got back on.

Montag switched to the Ghost on the other side of the chasm. Carried by momentum (But slowed considerably by the blast wave) it had stopped at the very edge of the broken stump of the bridge. Even now, its repulsorlifts were scrambling for purchase, pulling the Ghost back to safety. As Montag carefully aimed for the driver, he was providentially spared a bullet when the driver swung the Ghost to the side and exposed the fuel tank.

CRACK!

Montag aimed for a nearer target.

CRACK!

The last bullet in the magazine was spent on one of the Jackals from the first wave. In its haste to defend itself against another sniper, it exposed its flank to Montag.

Ten seconds after the shooting started, Sergeant Morris yelled for everyone to move.

* * *

**Treeline, 0939 Hours**

The first wave was cut down easily enough by the other Marines, but Da Vega concentrated on the second wave, hosing the group with the chain gun. Those that weren't already behind the shield barriers were sneaking in behind defensive Jackals. These were the ones she targeted. The bullets ricocheted off the shaped plasma with pyrotechnic flashes and ripple effects, but a score of 12.7 mm rounds had to do something to the Jackal's frail bones, and it succeeded in knocking a few of them down.

Morris screamed for everyone to clear out of the defensive positions, and Kanoff burned rubber to get over the fallen tree. They'd expected the Covenant to hit the position with Wraith Mortars, and the best counter would be to give them a target and scoot. While the four Warthogs went towards the Covenant, the Scorpion backed up in the direction of the base as fast as its dual turbines would take it. The gunner finally got a shot off, and shelled the cloister of barricades. The HEAT round went through the first layers like a bowling ball through the pins. Some of the barricade generators and Covenant went flying, but many stayed put.

Four large blobs rose out of the opposing treeline, blazing like hot blue suns. Aimed by veteran gunners, the blobs crashed into the defending treeline, burning a wide swath across the valley.

When a plasma mortar hits, 30 meter wide craters are left behind, filled with superheated pools of molten glass. Trees topple and are consumed by the pyroclastic mushroom cloud before they hit the ground, going out like the flare of a match-head. The Warthogs made it to minimum safe distance where they'd only be baked with the microwave burst and the heat wave. The Scorpion was not so lucky. The entire front had been half-melted, and the driver and the gunner were only alive by the virtue of the armor sheath surrounding the cockpit. The gunner had quickly elevated the barrel away from the blast to prevent slagging it, but now he aimed it back at the Covenant. He fired a single 90mm APFSDS round at an estimated Wraith position and was rewarded by a muffled explosion on the other side of the canyon. Another shot was prevented when a trio of mortars crashed down around the Scorpion, propelling it and the crew to the afterlife.

Da Vega saw all this out of the corner of her eye. The Covenant in the barricades held most of her attention, however. While a few of them had been left vulnerable, the remaining Elites had taken failed barricades and rebooted them, undoing some of the Scorpion crew's good work. A storm of plasma and needles was fired, and she ducked down behind the turret to protect herself. It was at this point that she noticed that the Wraiths had glassed a huge swath from one side of the valley to the other. The Warthogs couldn't drive across the molten glass, and they were stuck between a rock and a hard place until the stream cooled down a path for them to drive over.

From the Twin's Warthog, Morris started barking orders; the Warthog gunners were to concentrate fire on the group in the barricades, while the snipers were to try and kill the Shade gunners back in the treeline. Montag then countermanded Morris's order, commanding everyone to hose down the enemy treeline. Snipers were to continue to concentrate on the Shades.

Coordination zeroed off until Morris reaffirmed Montag's order. That didn't stop Da Vega from wondering. There was no way they could hit the Wraiths, and the Wraiths weren't firing any more; perhaps they were being held in reserve. The group in the barricades, on the other hand, were steadily tearing up the Marines. Hell, some of those Elites even had fuel rod guns, which they were using to great effect.

Her convictions seemed confirmed when a large artillery beacon appeared over the barricaded group on her HMD, courtesy of Montag.

"We don't have any frikkin' artillery!" Da Vega screamed to anyone who could hear her. Mostly herself.

* * *

**Tarmac, 0942 Hours**

Back at the Tarmac, a Scorpion was idling in disgrace. Its graceful 90 mm cannon and autoloader had been removed, parted out and replaced with a rugged jumble of fuel rod launchers salvaged from downed Banshees. Coiling around this eyesore of a turret were coolant hoses, and engineers were still fitting a sheet-metal cowl around this mess to protect it from stray bullets.

Inside the Scorpion, the gunner was fretting as he heard news of the battles filtering in over the radio. From what he heard, it was only going well on one side. Everywhere else, the Covenant had fired off their Wraith batteries first, cutting the defenders down and barely leaving enough Marines to blow the bridges. Banshees were flying in to cover for reinforcements, but it was close.

Two screens on his console displayed maps of the plateau: topographical and tactical. On both of them, a large targeting icon blipped intermittently off the edge of the plateau. It was just barely outside the maximum range the engineers had given for the launchers, but with a tailwind and a little luck…

The gunner uttered a brief prayer and pulled the trigger. Perhaps he just made a difference.

* * *

**Clearing, 0943 Hours**

Da Vega heard the roaring in the sky and glanced over her shoulder. Eight brilliant green darts streaked though the sky and buried themselves in the Covenant's side of the chasm. The spread was terrible and only four rods hit the ground within the cloister of barricades. But what the considerable primary blast didn't kill, the secondary explosions from grenades, methane tanks, and the odd fuel rod gun did. The lone survivor was an Elite, with all its skin scorched off on its torso and missing all four of its mandibles. It staggered around like a drunken sailor, and didn't seem worth wasting a bullet on.

Giddy with this victory, Da Vega joined the cheers of joy over the radio. Now she remembered Montag talking about Katyushas, but the idea of welding Covenant weapons onto human vehicles had just seemed… doomed to failure.

Until now, the Elite in charged had seemed unwilling to glass the area the Marines were trapped in, as he would have to march his troops over the craters. This excuse had vanished like the aforementioned troops, and the three remaining Wraiths opened fire.

The Wraith's job of directly killing the Warthogs was made all the harder when three LZ beacons appeared where the mortars would hit. Montag barely had to yell for the Warthogs to clear the area around the beacons. It was a clever tactic that allowed the Warthogs to dodge with ease, and the Wraiths resorted to a systematic glassing after the second failed volley. When the Warthogs ran out of land to drive on, the molten glass would eat the Puma tires like liquid steel eats flesh.

"Da Vega! Do you still have the EFPs?" Montag asked over the radio. He sounded exhausted, as did she. Partly from the pitched battle, partly from the oppressive heat.

"Yeah!" They'd only been clanking against each other every time Kanoff took a turn.

"Get Kanoff to stop and drop one off!"

She relayed the orders to Kanoff, and he stopped right in the middle of the stream long enough for her to roll one of the drums off the side of the Warthog.

* * *

**Streambed, 0945 Hours**

Montag gunned the Ghost's engines (It didn't have boosting, but it wasn't one-speed) and caught up to where the EFP had been dumped. It pained a part of him to see such a well-made instrument abused like so. It was almost the same as seeing a sniper rifle used as a cudgel, or a gauss cannon left out in the rain.

He violently parked the Ghost (It wasn't as dear as the EFP) behind a large rock that jutted out of the stream and vaulted off of it. The silt was sick, a thin coating over a bed of smooth gravel, and Montag slipped twice before getting to the drum and pulling it out of the muck. A cursory examination showed it to be largely unharmed.

That left the problem of aiming it. Jonesy had added very precise ironsights, but he didn't know how precise it was. Montag glanced through the sights like he used to aim with the Handgun. It seemed alright.

He heard an explosion, and then a larger explosion on the other side of the canyon. Jonesy had dismounted from Kanoff's Warthog and fired off one of the EFPs, to something resembling success. Montag shrugged and propped the drum on the ground, aimed through the ironsight, pressed the trigger and backed off.

The EFP drum exploded, or rather, the casing did. Several shaped charges focused their explosive energy on the concave copper lid. The three kilogram sheet was propelled to five times the speed of sound, plastically deformed and molded like clay into a long-rod penetrator by the time it flew over the chasm. It shot into the section of the treeline Montag had aimed at, where he'd seen a plasma mortar originate from, and met only slight resistance before hitting a Wraith dead-on. The round burrowed through the frontal armor, structural bracing, and an Elite's thigh before hitting the fusion core in the rear section. Neither the casing nor the insulation of the reactor offered much resistance to the round, and it made its way into the upper part of the reaction chamber before it completely vaporized.

In a Wraith, as with many heavy Covenant vehicles, one or many fusion cores use a strong magnetic field to sustain prodigious levels of pressure on a ball of tritium and deuterium, a sort of miniature sun. Now the magnetic field was rapidly collapsing from the damage, and the area the projectile hit was falling apart the fastest. Milliseconds after the EFP hit, a hot jet of thermonuclear plasma gushed out through that area, passed through the Elite's lower torso and blew apart the front of the Wraith.

Cheers erupted from the three surviving Warthogs and the snipers. The Covenant were down to one Wraith and they seemed hesitant to risk it, because it ceased firing immediately. In the short span of time it took the Covenant to lose three Wraiths, four Ghosts, and almost the entirety of their infantry, the Marines had only spent one Warthog and the martyred Scorpion. In someone's math book, that added up to a success.

On his way to his Ghost, Montag was stopped when Kanoff pulled up in front of him and flashed him the thumbs up.

"EFPs" Kanoff yelled jubilantly. "Just how much of this did you have planned out?"

Montag wanted to answer, but something stilled his tongue and focused his attention elsewhere: a droning, echoing sound more felt than heard. He turned away from the Warthog in time to see a Spirit dropship rise out of the chasm. It oriented itself broadside to the two landmasses, flitted to the side of the chasm where the charred stump of the bridge was, and opened the troop bay facing away from the Marines.

Montag sprinted to the Warthog, leaped halfway up the side and pulled the last EFP out, like stealing a watermelon from a fruit stand. A short distance away, he plopped it down and aimed it.

The Spirit flew sideways, strafing from one side to the other side of the chasm. The bay door facing the Marines opened.

Montag pulled the trigger and rolled away, curling into the fetal position.

A Hunter pair and two Jackals jumped out of the Spirit onto the stump of the land bridge. The Hunters went into a defensive guard, while the Jackals carried something between them that resembled a cross between a speed bump and a shield generator.

Four seconds after Montag pulled the trigger, the EFP drum exploded, sending a penetrator through one side of the Spirit's cockpit, the pilot, several vital systems and out the other end. The Spirit lost power immediately, and gouts of flame spouted out both entry and exit holes. One of the tines smashed into the remnant of the land bridge and pulped one of the Jackals. The Spirit continued to fall, spinning and crashing into the clif all the way down.

The Hunters roared and opened fire. Da Vega ducked down into the gunner's seat to avoid getting decapitated by one of the fuel rods. The other rod landed to the side of Montag, lifting him off of his knees and tossing him into the streambed a few meters to his right.

* * *

Dazed and confused, Montag leaned back and rolled onto his knees. Hell, he felt like he'd gone barcrawling with Kantorek and subsequently got creamed by a bus.

That's right, the Hunters. Blearily, Montag stared through the raging snowstorm and picked out the glowing aura of their cannons. A few blinks switched the HMD to infrared, and they became blobs of red and white backdropped by a static screen of black and indigo.

He was naked. His rifle was back with the Ghost. Stupid, he'd gone up against a Hunter without anything that could possibly kill it. The bones in his face and his ribs ached, remembering the last time. Montag struggled to suppress a shiver.

Shiver? Hell, it was cold out here, freezing! Of course: He'd come out here in his fatigues, no greatcoat or heated mask, and he was knee deep in snow and subzero wind.

The snowstorm blurred, and Montag felt faint. Was this hypothermia? He tried to remember the symptoms, but couldn't. Hell, it was as common as a heart attack, and yet he- wait, the snow wasn't blurring. The world was resolving, it was clarifying, it-

Before Montag could finish that thought, something metallic and moving fast slammed into him.

* * *

Da Vega heaved herself up with the handles on the chain gun and fired back at the Hunters. The actions were purely instinctive, and it never occurred to her to question what happened to Montag until she saw him standing up out of the corner of her eye.

By now, the Hunters had hunkered down and were shrugging off the bullets and sniper rounds hammering away at them. In unison, they fired back and drove off the Warthogs. The Rocket Hog had been trashed earlier, and the Marines' remaining guns could do little against them. The Hunters, on the other hand, had three Warthogs and three conscious snipers to contend with, and it was a struggle to keep themselves from being outflanked. That was probably why they hadn't totaled any of the Warthogs yet.

But now Montag was standing up in the middle of a firefight, apparently as oblivious as a newborn baby. And that caught the attention of one of the Hunters. Perhaps it was eager to finish a hastily done job, because it aimed its arm at Montag.

"Allan!" She screamed. "Drive by Montag!"

Kanoff sharply turned the Warthog to the left and gunned the engine. It hurtled over the bank of the dried streambed and brushed past Montag. Da Vega picked her assault rifle out of the gun rack and threw it out the side. The butt struck Montag squarely across the shoulders and bowled him over.

A lone fuel rod flew through the space that had been occupied by Montag's chest seconds before and smashed against a boulder five meters away. Unfazed, the hunter adjusted its aim and charged up for a second shot. It was surprised when a sniper bullet hit the cannon sleeve and ricocheted into the sky. It was completely shocked when a second bullet entered the barrel at a narrow angle and prematurely detonated the charge of plasma gel and the extra ammo along with it.

Behind the Marines, up on the cliffs, Lincoln whooped for joy at the demonstration of marksmanship, a feat almost on par with Montag shooting down a Banshee through its weak spot.

One of the other snipers must have had a rocket launcher somewhere, as they finally got a rocket fired off. The Hunter it was aimed at defied conventional Hunter wisdom by running toward the rocket rather than sidestepping it. At the last moment, it batted the rocket aide with its shield and fired back at the sniper in question. While doing so, it exposed its vulnerable midsection long enough for two dozen high caliber bullets to tear it in half.

Kanoff pulled up beside Montag and Jonesy and Da Vega jumped off. Da Vega had further to fall, unfortunately, and a pain that lanced up her leg told her that she should have been more careful. She collapsed into a heap while Jonesy tried to pick up Montag, but he couldn't do it alone.

The first Hunter, suddenly devoid of its gun, charged at the Warthog. It raised its shield overhead and smashed it into the hoot of the Warthog hard enough to raise the rear wheels out of the ground.

Da Vega rolled to the side, over and over until she reached her assault rifle. The broken display was an ominous warning. She aimed at the Hunter's midsection and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Somehow, the rifle renowned for not jamming had jammed from abuse.

The Hunter bellowed and swiped at the Warthog, which spun around ninety degrees clockwise, so that the driver's side was facing the Hunter.

The other Warthogs turned their weapons against the Hunter. It staggered, covered its back with the shield, and screamed. It was, as with most Hunter noises, more felt than heard, a roar of pain and anguish, a frusterated animal trapped between the dogs and the hunters. But it exposed itself to Kanoff, who pulled his shotgun out from beneath the dashboard and shot it.

The upper half of the Hunter keeled over, like a statue breaking in half. The torso hit the ground, and the eels seemed to loose cohesion, as they spilled out of the armor and formed a writhing pile on the ground, becoming a mob rather than an entity. Kanoff took the plasma rifle he'd recieved from the armory and fired into the midst of the worms, burning gaping holes in the orange mound.

In the meantime, Liz drove her Warthog up and helped Jonesy load Montag and Da Vega into the rear. In another few minutes, the stream would clear a way through the Wraith craters, cooling the obsidian enough for the Warthogs to drive back over.

* * *

_Montag gazed over the thriving metropolis of Konnenburg. There were skyscrapers as far as the eye can see from the tenth floor, but they were dark, like concrete skeletons of their former selves. The power had been cut off to force a blackout throughout the city, but the landscape was lit up by sparse fires from Wraith mortars and Locust beams. The fires were few and short lived, however. Concrete doesn't burn well, especially when the weather forecast is moderate winds of a chilly fifty degrees below zero._

_Montag stood up from his seat and crossed the office to the window. It was a wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling pane of plexiglass, which must have been a royal pain in the heating bill. Now that the heating had been turned off (With great difficulties, given the redundancies and backups built into each climate control center of each building) Montag's breath fogged the window, obscured his own reflection behind a think mist. He reached out and jabbed at the window, creating two vertical dashes. He paused and then placed two fingers below the dashes and swiped a horizontal arc, facing up._

_This close to the windows, he could see much more once he brushed the mist away with a mitten covered hand. Above, high in the atmosphere, a gray cloud still hung over the city, the remains of factory pollutants and five or six hundred Phantoms with support craft. Only a small percentage of them made it to the city, as most of them succumbed to the Lanzer triple-A. After all, not even the heaviest aerial armor could withstand a 30x180mm gauss round traveling at hypersonic speeds. Reports over the radio, on the Unionists' Channel, reported a Lanzer accuracy of 94% on each shot. The Covenant had only gotten in through sheer weight of numbers. Acceptable, since the Volksturm and the Combined Army of Siberia Prime (The hated term 'militia,' though a necessary evil, had been dropped the very second the Covenant had been spotted in Slipspace) were still making preparations for the months ahead, converting a jingoistic society of factory workers into a martial society of citizen-soldiers. Armories, bunkers, shelters, and communication lines still had to be prepped, and that was draining the armed forces._

_But soon, all of Siberia would be brought to bear upon the fanatics invading the homeworld. Against Montag's objections, six billion people would mobilize and fight as no human world had fought the Covenant before. Evacuation plans were, as near as Montag could find out, nonexistent._

_The Stalingrad of Humanity. A simple phrase that had evoked deep cultural pride in the citizens of Siberia. (The minority of German descent had been kind enough to forget they'd been on the losing side of that particular conflict) Stalingrad, the greatest Wonder of the Industrial Era._

_For a second, Montag could believe it. It was so tempting. As a denizen of Siberia Prime, raised and shaped by the uniquely northern Eurasian culture, it was all too easy to fall into the mould defined by patriotism and pride. He could look at the phenomenal size of the Siberian Army, at the tens of thousands of Scorpions and Spasskaya and Cougars and Reavers turned out in the massive factory complexes in each city. It was certain that every tank, every gun that came off the assembly line had a soldier ready to use it. But the Covenant didn't win the war on the ground. As a former Marine, Montag knew that all too well. The war was lost in space, and Siberia's orbital defenses would only hold out so long. Nothing would prevent the Covenant from glassing the Siberia system like they glassed every other planet. Resistance was a futile gesture._

"_What are they doing?"_

_That was Spasskaya, switching off the radio. She was a soldier, but not a combat veteran like Montag. She was a citizen-soldier of Siberia, nursed at the teat with talk of human superiority and propaganda flicks. She was getting restless and wanted to do something, because she'd never stared down the barrel of a plasma rifle._

_Montag glanced down to the base of the building, where the Covenant had set up a landing zone. Here, a large roundabout had been flattened to make room for Phantoms, one of which had landed and disgorged its payload of troops. Now it just waited there, the covenant soldiers below had set up barricades. Humans would at least establish a patrolling pattern, wary against attack._

"_Getting complacent," Montag answered, just when Spasskaya had opened her mouth to ask again._

"_So, is it time to kill?" She asked, in that macho way non-veterans of both sexes talked. Somehow, it never occurred to the FNGs that life wasn't a Department of Public Information war movie. The main characters didn't always go home. Death doesn't just visit the other guy, and flesh wounds rarely were._

_Montag answered in the negative before he saw it. Two more Phantoms flew in over the lower buildings and circled the Covenant LZ. They came in for a landing after the first Phantom took off and established a patrol pattern._

"_What's the artillery situation?" Montag asked as he wrapped a scarf around his face. It was standard attire for everyone on the planet, electrically heated on one side and powered by a fuel cell that would last for a whole day. Under the chin, over the mouth, over the forehead, and once more below the eyes. Now the helmet went on, and the HMD went down._

"_We got more rockets than the enemy has landing zones. Artillery support won't be a problem." Spasskaya answered. "When we call them."_

_Montag leaned against the lone desk in the office. "The sooner we get started, the sooner they get called in."_

_She leaned against the desk too, ready to shove. She was built like the average citizen. Great for factory work, but not quite the toned physique of the soldier. Together, they easily shoved the desk (A dark-grain mahogany with teak inlay; definitely the desk of an executive or financial officer) out through the window and into the roundabout below._

_Montag fell into a kneeling position in the windowsill and raised the Rifle. After targeting the middle of the roundabout for an artillery strike (the entire city was networked with a sort of Artemis system) he sighted in on one of the Hunters._

_CRACK!_

_Montag selected the other Hunter, which somehow knew where the bullet had come from. Perhaps it was receiving messages from the remaining eels of its companion, because it looked right where Montag was sitting and shuffled to the side. It tried to make itself as small of a target as possible, while charging up its gun to shoot back._

_CRACK! CRACK!_

_That encouraged the Hunter to step beneath the Phantoms, temporarily hiding itself and blocking its view of Montag._

_The patrolling Phantom spotted Montag and began firing with all guns. That was Montag's cue to drop behind a metal server farm they'd dragged in here for cover._

_That was Spasskaya's cue to fire up the backup plan. The M109 Anti-Material Gauss Rifle vaguely resemble the rotary chaingun on the back of a Warthog, with three 12.7mm barrels and a large machine housing in the rear. This resemblance was ruined by the bipod and the fact that it was over two meters long, with large rings around the barrels at regular intervals_

_Spasskaya, aiming from the prone position back in the hallway, fired as soon as Montag was out of the way. The 12.7x105 mm steel-jacketed DU round was immediately propelled to hypersonic speeds and tore the nose off of the Phantom. The second shot gutted it from bow to stern. The third shot did nothing, as a path had already been cleared for it. The dropship fell like a stone and buried itself in the pavement below._

_She flipped a switch and pulled a canister out of the back, right between the firing chambers of the barrels. The canister was as long and thick as her arm, and segmented into three isomer capacitors, one for each shot. Spaced around the canister were three clips large enough to hold one bullet each. One canister, one shot._

_Montag got up from the floor, where three closely-spaced sonic booms had shoved him. "Conserve ammunition. Three shots is a waste."_

_The canister was replaced, and Spasskaya lifted the entire weapon and carried it into the office. She nonchalantly stepped over the burned rubble where the plasma had struck, propped the bipod on the edge of the windowsill, and pressed the trigger. The Phantom that had taken off and turned to get out of the M109's field of fire got blasted broadside. The second shot took out the engines. The Phantom glided for a while, with the lights flickering on and off like a Christmas tree, before it completely lost power and plowed into a line of parked cars._

_The third shot hit the last Phantom as it was still taking off, sticking it through the roof like a pin through a beetle in an entomology collection. It bobbed in the air and slowly tried to escape, but wasn't fast enough._

_Far off, a large missile entered the skyline, dipping below the skyscrapers at supersonic speed. It followed the road below it, one of the roads that lead to the roundabout. At a predetermined distance, the casing split into thirds and was shucked off by the air resistance. This bared a core of cluster munitions, which were scattered throughout the area. As soon as the fist-sized munitions hit the ground, (or the Phantom) they detonated, spraying and igniting their napalm contents. The roundabout became a raging inferno, a lake of hellfire and brimstone that spawned a thunderous mushroom cloud. It ascended to the Heavens, carrying the burnt sacrifice of a hundred enemy soldiers to God, searing and assaulting the concrete buildings on all sides as it raced along its journey._

_The fire alarms blared, and dispensers in the ceiling hosed the office with fire-retardant foam. Montag struggled to the window and looked out. The flames were still blazing, caressing and consuming the Covenant corpses. The Phantom had been blown about like a bird in a tempest, and was buried in the side of the skyscraper opposite from the office building. His senses were assaulted by roaring, dancing, cracking, and flickering, by the heat of the moment and the heat of the fire. He smelled cordite, ozone, burning flesh… napalm too. The smells of man-made war._

"_I love the smell of napalm in the morning," Montag thought, quoting the great commanding officer who'd said those words four years ago. Another tongue of fire lanced up the side of the concrete building, and Montag backed off, grinning the grin of al men beaten back by fire._

_It was that moment when an epiphany hit Montag. So powerful, so clear, it was a diamond bullet that cracked his skull open and lodged in his brain. He saw, as he had seen so many times before but so much clearer now, the Covenant as a machine, a war machine. He could take it apart in his demi-vision, label the shipmasters, the lances, the air swarms; he could point out the gearbox, the drive train, the differentials and escapements. He could see it slowly, inexorably advancing through UNSC space, surrounding each planet within its mechanical jaws and applying pressure, quickly yet surely, until each planet cracked like a nut in a vice._

_In the same hand, he remembered Beatty's monologues; great arguments that usually found their way onto the opinion page of Leatherneck Magazine. Broad lectures covering everything from the evils of conscripted armies to the pillars of a Heinleinist military, and often touching upon the proper role of the citizenry in an all-out war of extermination. Fulfillment. Siberia Prime was a world where the military could be expanded as much as needed, because there was no end to the volunteers or the tools of war. Siberia Prime was a world where the UNSC would not waste precious resources defending and evacuating the citizens, because the proletariat did not want to evacuate, and were perfectly willing do defend themselves._

_The third tarot card in Montag's hand was the Siberian Way, the mindset and cultural attitude that would win this war. Fierce independence, combined with the tempered xenophobia that had been cultured over the past fifteen years. And there was the idea of tolerance, that any machine had a set of parameters under which it would operate ideally; to push a machine past tolerance was to break it, was to be wasteful._

_That was how the Machine would die: it would surround Siberia Prime, relentlessly crushing an unyielding object. The Machine would be extended, driven past Tolerance until it started to come apart. The gearbox would strip itself bare, the drivelines would bend and snap, and the lubricants would freeze out on the Siberain plains, just as another War Machine had frozen on the Russian steppes, all those centuries ago on Earth. The Covenant's relentless zeal would turn to a state of terminal shock, as they realized, too little too late, that they'd overextended themselves, that Siberai Prime had served as a beacon of hope for Humanity, a lesson how to fight the Covenant. The Covenant would attack other planets, only to encounter the same unyielding object, the nut that couldn't be cracked. The Machine would not just be broken, but surrounded and pushed back, until the Covenant were fighting on their land, paying with their blood. United, the Proletariat and the Military would push together, fighting with weapons not developed yet, leaving each alien planet barren from nuclear fire and chemical warfare. Humanity would have a Machine of its own, and it would not stop until the Covenant Homeworld was laid barren for the centuries to come._

_Montag took his fears, and shed them like a snake shedding its skin, basking in the brutal heat of the fires below. Though they had merit, there was no place for doubt, as Ghorzny had proclaimed. No room for pessimism, nor defeatism. The stakes were too high, the possibilities too great, for half measures or doubt to prevent what has to be done, for Siberia and for all of Mankind._

"_One day, this war is going to end," Montag thought as he turned his back on the inferno below. One day, things will change

* * *

_

**Treeline, 0959 Hours**_  
_

"I think he's moving…"

Montag rested for several heartbeats, collecting himself and his surroundings. He was sitting up against something hard, vaguely shaped like a tree trunk. All about him was the smell of smelted metal and ozone, but also burning wood. Nothing overtly hostile.

Caution turned to panic as he realized that somebody had stripped his armor off, leaving only fragile fatigues covering him. Hell, didn't they realize they were in a war zone?

He forced himself to calm down and slowly opened his eyes.

"Are you alright?"

That question again…

"Yeah… I think I'm seeing double though…"

"Yeah," June laughed. "That's because it's us."

Oh. That probably meant he was alright.

Dirkens' face swam into view, and Montag felt a pressure on his forehead.

"OK, Montag, the good news is that you didn't put your arm out again."

Then why couldn't Montag feel his left side?

"One of the fuel rods flash-burned you and you've got some serious burns on your left side. What your armor didn't cover is serious. You still got your skin, but some of the burns extend pretty deep. And there are some chips in your collar bone I don't like."

"How bad are the burns?"

"Your skin isn't going to fall off, but there's a high chance of infection. Stay on antibiotics and painkillers, and you should be able to move around." Take two pills and call me in the morning.

"At least I didn't put my arm out…" Montag muttered. There wasn't much more he could say. He put his helmet on and flipped the HMD down, feeling much better after he had done so.

Montag was left alone after that, leaning against the stump. They were back on the safe side of the Wraith craters, nestled in the trees; apparently, the stream had cooled down the craters enough for the Marines to cross safely. Across from him, Da Vega was nursing what looked like a twisted ankle. He grimaced inside; he almost got run through with a fuel rod, and escaped mostly undamaged. Da Vega jumped out the back of a Warthog, and twisted her ankle. Twelve years in the military, and he still wasn't sure how much dumb luck factored into casualties.

Beyond Da Vega and other victims (Of the survivors, most of the injuries were relatively minor, mostly burns and a few holes from needlers. Somehow, plasma seemed to mostly kill you or just sear you and leave you) were the two remaining Warthogs and the one that the Hunter had totaled. Morris was in one, keeping up to date on the radio. Montag tried to listen in, but he couldn't. It was as if a damp towel had been wrapped around his head. He could see almost perfectly, but his brain wasn't processing the information. He could hear the Marines around them, but they were buzzing like a swarm of locusts… He couldn't understand anything.

Montag must have drifted off for a second, because the next time he looked, Morris was right in front of him.

"So, how did you come up with the LZ beacons?" He asked.

After Montag processed this query, he was confused even more. Didn't Morris know about the Artemis system? "The Artemis system was supposed to do something like that, sir. I think the Wraiths took too much of it out to work."

"Maybe, but the EFPs were something else." Morris grimaced. "It's a completely different story on the other bridges. We're going to have to pull back and reinforce the other two areas."

Montag thought for a minute, about the minimal force still on the other side of the chasm. "Sir, leave behind another sniper and a few rocket launchers. I'm pretty sure I can hold this area completely."

Morris nodded, thinking about the remaining Wraith and what looked like half of a deployable bridge. "Right. You're in no condition to fight anyways."

Montag let that slide, knowing it was probably the truth. With Morris's help, he stood up and began walking to his Ghost, which somebody had been kind enough to retrieve and park next to the Warthogs. The first few steps were agony. He hadn't escaped mostly unscathed, as he'd thought, but mostly well-done. His balance seemed to be off-kilter, and he staggered like a drunken man. His elbow, hand, and the left side of his face were burned, dried out like a callus, in need of burn gel. He collapsed into the seat of the Ghost once he reached it, coughing from the dust the retreating Warthogs left behind.

Montag reached into his backpack, lying beside him on the ground, and pulled out one of the medical kits. A jar of burn gel was retrieved, and Montag applied it to his seared skin, watching as the anhydrous compound melted into his skin. Burn gel was one of the luckier find of the war; it quickly rehydrated burned skin and encouraged the body to reject dead cells. In a few minutes, his skin would be much better. In a few hours, the skin would break out in acne, expelling the dead tissue. The funny thing was that the UNSC contractors never developed the medicine. It was actually discovered by accident in a laboratory owned by a major cosmetic manufacturer.

The second bit of medication Montag took did not come from the medical kit. It came from a surgical kit further into the backpack. An elastic band went over Montag's bare arm, forcing the veins to stand out. Next was a one-use syringe, marked for hospital use only, and labeled as "Dilithium Terrazene".

He slowly inserted the silvery needle into a prominent blue vein, in the crook of his arm. With his thumb, he tapped the bulb at the end of the syringe, which released compressed nitrogen gas. A plunger was forced down the tube, evenly pumping the glorious medicine through the needle and into the bloodstream.

"Uh, Montag, what are you doing?" That was Lincoln; apparently, the sniper who had been left behind with Montag.

"Morphine," Montag answered. The last thing he wanted was to get forced into a lengthy discussion.

He didn't know how long he sat in the seat, but he felt better somehow. The morphine took care of the pain, eased the knots and cords out of his muscles, but the DT made him think clearer. It swept the cobwebs away, allowed him to actually understand what was going on around him. Like how Kantorek had always claimed he couldn't think clearly unless he was intoxicated…

As his head cleared, coming together like a library being resorted after a hurricane, the old plan came to mind. He and Lincoln were alone. To quietly kill him, wait for the Covenant to reestablish the portable bridge, and then fight his way out… Doable and tempting. Lincoln's ammunition and MREs were more than enough to get Montag to the Pillar.

Despite the Dilithium Terrazene, Montag clearly felt the Shadow watching him, urging him to do the sensible thing.

Montag fired up the Ghost and coasted out in the open. As far as he could see, the Covenant on the other side were keeping a low profile.

He turned on his radio and talked into the reed mike. "Sergeant, what's the situation?"

"Montag, are you still down there?" Morris's tinny voice came in, breathlessly. Montag could hear a background symphony of gunfire, rockets, and plasma barrages.

"Yessir." Montag replied, not sure if he meant 'yes' or 'for now'.

"Montag, get the Hell back to base! They're taking out the PD cannons!"

Which meant that the Marines' dominance of the surrounding airspace had ended. Which would explain the wailing echoing from the chasm.

Montag spun the Ghost around and raced for the treeline. Behind him, he saw seven Banshees crest the edge of the chasm and race for the base. Two, however, fell out of formation and followed the green-stained Ghost.

Montag pushed the engine as far as it would go. He followed the stream, because it afforded a straight path to the base, whereas the trees would slow him down and provide no cover from the fuel rods.

Ahead, Lincoln was splashing into the stream, waving for Montag to slow down and pick him up. Montag didn't make a choice; the action was instinctual. He veered off into the trees before reaching Lincoln. Behind him, twin trails of plasma bolts raced upstream and through Lincoln. As the bolts hit the water, a full gallon of water flashed into steam with a crack and a hiss. Lincoln's skin sounded little different; his armor did little to protect him.

Montag crept out of the trees. The Banshees had flown off to join the upraised wasps' nest that was buzzing over the Base. Montag was safe.

He picked up Lincoln by the collar and dragged it out of the water. The plasma bolts had hit in no less than five places, and Lincoln's face was as vacant as that of a dead fish. The ammunition and the food were quickly removed, but the body was a lingering problem. The armor would not let the body float downstream, where it might remain undisturbed, and nothing made Montag's blood boil like the thought of xenos eating human bodies.

He let the body down, half in and half out of the water. Lincoln's ashen face, reflecting the leaden skies above, stared at Montag until two fingers mercifully closed the eyes. Montag then slipped a grenade into the silt beneath Lincoln's body, and hooked the pin on Lincoln's fatigues. That was enough to discourage scavengers, Montag hoped.

As he left the bank of the gently curving stream, Montag was unsure of what to feel. He had the supplies to reach the Pillar of Autumn, but his moral standing was curious. He wasn't sure who was responsible for Lincoln's death.

It shouldn't matter. He'd personally killed all sorts of people, from rebels to rioting refugees to deserters. Lincoln's death shouldn't matter, but it did.

* * *

**A/N: Yup, it's that time of year again. Time for another update. One of the longest chapters in Isolation, actually, half again as long as the previous chapter.  
**

**In other news, some of you might have noticed that "Nightmare" was taken down. It's only temporary, I assure you. I am**** adding a prologue****and ****cleaning up the first chapter, as well as earlier chapters of Isolation. And applying to college... and scholarships... and calculus...**

**But, those of you who did read "Nightmare" might remember that I had an important political announcement to make after the US elections... so here it goes...**

**I am John McCain's grandson.**

**I know I had some of you going there. Actually, I will be attending the Presidential Inauguration in January (Even if I didn't vote for the guy). Those of you who are interested, I will be taking a crapload of pictures, and possibly writing a commentary as well. For 1,500 dollars, it had better be interesting.**

**Meh, expect Nightmare to be re-posted sometime this decade, and expect something on Christmas Eve too.  
**

You don't have to hide the kitchen.


	22. Regicide

_**Nobody's talked about anything else since the news got to Reach... maybe three days ago. Everyone's got two opinions on it, and I've yet to met anyone who's got the perfect solution. The factory-rats been screwing us over for at least a decade, and I'd like nothing better than to watch the Covenant glass them.**_

_**But Siberia Prime is home to at least thirty five percent of our industrial capacity, which means they've got us by the balls. They lose, we lose; they win...**_

_**Muhammed Ahbeni, Intelligence Brief (ONI Section One, OLYMPUS Liaison)**_

* * *

**1024 hours, 20th September, 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Beta Base, Hangar  
Halo**

One last Pelican roared out of the entrance to the base, laden with all the Marines and supplies it could carry. Kanoff watched it go from his position by the entrance, where he was supposed to be laying down suppressing fire. He might as well as replace the headlight fluid in the remaining Warthog. What few Covenant there were taking cover in the trees and shooting at the transports weren't the problem. The Covenant had at least fifteen Banshees flying sortie over the base; there was no way the Pelican could get out without escort, and the Banshees the Marines had captured had long been shot down.

Now that there was room for the Scorpion-katyusha to get through, it lumbered up the ramp and through the entrance. The turret was facing the rear, and the gunner was busy burying volley after volley of fuel rods into the distant treeline.

Kanoff and Da Vega got the green acknowledgment light from Sergeant Morris, and they both picked up the MG they were manning and carried it further into the base. It was a rotary gun taken from the back of a Warthog, and somebody had installed a carriage that extended the full length of the gun, with two small wheels just below the muzzle. Therefore, the forty kilo gun was easier to drag further back into the hangar.

Kanoff had found out the hard way that it needed a set of brakes on the wheels. When they got to the fallback point, he chocked the wheels with someone's dirty fatigues. Even so, the first couple of rounds inched the machine gun back into his lap, eliciting a string of curses from him.

"There's a reason why they mount these on two-ton jeeps!" he shouted to Da Vega as he shoved the gun back and braced against it with his knees.

"I don't know about that!" Da Vega answered. "I've seen videos of Spartans hauling these around bare handed!"

"How many rounds did they fire?"

"Not many!"

"Exactly!"

A lone Banshee fell out of the sky, corrected itself, and flew back up out of view before Kanoff could properly focus on it and shoot. In that short period of time, it let loose a single fuel rod, which sailed into the hangar and exploded meters away from the katyusha.

"Don't let them do that again! I want all emgees concentrating fire on-"

Before the Major could finish that last sentence, three more Banshees dove down, fired, and then broke away in a starburst pattern. Kanoff shot the middle one in the belly, and the katyusha unleashed a volley that was doomed to miss, but three fuel rods came in and hit the converted Scorpion in the rear. The entire rear half burst into flame, and both the driver and the gunner scrambled out of their respective hatches with flames licking their clothes.

Kanoff grimaced and focused his fire on the Jackal shields he could see in the distant treeline. The Covenant had them completely bottled up in the base, and had just taken out their last set of heavy guns. Nothing had gone right since he'd gotten up that morning.

* * *

**Tigris Stream, 1015 Hours**

Banshees flew overhead. Each time they did that, Montag's blood ran cold. They couldn't see him, and they probably couldn't see the Ghost, but his nerves were frayed. He needed a cigarette, but he dared not have one.

He'd spent several hours pondering how to kill Private Lincoln and get away with it. Each time, the decisions had snowballed into what-ifs and should-nots. Each time, he'd imagined himself making mistakes, exposing himself, having to confront Kanoff, Da Vega, the Twins, people he'd rather not kill.

He'd been focusing on the what-ifs, not how to avoid them. And when it came down to it, all it took was a split-second decision to bump Lincoln off.

On many occasions, he'd been accused of not having a conscience. His reply to that had never been vocalized, but had always been complicated. Right now, he was feeling guilt, but he _knew_ that he wasn't at fault. Hell, Lincoln had run right out into the open with the Banshees overhead. What the Hell Lincoln had been thinking was beyond Montag.

Perhaps it was because he'd taught Lincoln how to take cover and how to act in the ambush, all the while eying his rations and his ammunition. And then, after he'd left Lincoln to die, he'd gone back to strip the body of munitions. Like a buzzard, or one of those drifters who used to follow armies, bury the dead and keep the muskets and money and boots that they found. It was distasteful, all war was, but this-

More Banshees flew overhead, and Montag shoved the matter from his mind, filing it in a vast library of moral quandaries. Perhaps not a library, but a mass grave, where the bones were beginning to stir once again.

All roads lead to Rome, but Rome for Montag was the Pillar of Autumn and her mega-megaton nuclear reactor. He'd waited too long to desert, and now the Covenant completely surrounded the mesa upon which Beta Base was located. Montag had no doubts that the land bridges that previously connected the mesa to the surrounding hills were now dust, sand, and gravel in the moat-like river below. In their place, on two sides at the most, the Covenant had set up their own bridges, which they had used instead of dropships. Taking his Ghost, seeking those bridges out, and trying to cross them in spite of the Covenant defenders wasn't even worth considering.

Option number two was the Base. Even if Pelicans couldn't get out-

Montag's train of thought was interrupted again, this time by the thunderous boom that was unmistakeably a Scorpion cannon, not far off. If anything, that was his free ride to the Base, although he'd have to be careful. He'd painted his Ghost green last night, but it was a Covenant vehicle, and therefore the danger of not-so-friendly fire was too great to ignore.

Montag started the vehicle's engine, eased it out of the shrub he'd been hiding in, and drove off in the general direction of the Scorpion.

* * *

**120 meters upspin of Tigris Stream, 1015 Hours**

The Field Marshall was broken off from his legion, and the Plan was unraveling about him.

The execution of the attack had been flawless, the breaching of Human defenses orchestrated perfectly on his side. Vlar 'Koloamee had likewise been successful, perhaps overtly so. Mortumas 'Kandonomee's protege and aide-de-camp had wiped out the humans entirely with the first volley from the Wraiths. Such a promising start had been unfortunately slowed as he had to destroy the land bridge himself in order to make room for the portable bridge. Humans often destroyed bridges with their explosives, for what good it did, but they had a nasty habit of destroying them at the exact moment when you were trying to cross.

The assault had fallen apart exactly where Mortumas knew it would, but at the very place where it had been impossible for him to construct a failsafe into the plan. Felna, House Danat, had renounced Mortumas's design and lead his troops according to his own instincts, clouded as they were with the heady arrogance of adolescence. Given Wraiths, Shades and troops outfitted with fuel rod cannons, he had been ordered to lie in wait for escaping aircraft. Such a role, as Vlar 'Koloamee had pointed out, was a task safe from simpletons.

Barely had Mortumas pushed his troops over the portable bridge when Felna signaled, claiming to have flushed the humans from hiding at the expense of a Wraith (Flushed from hiding! As if this were a mere hunt of sport!). Heartbeats later, Felna called in and claimed that the humans had been killed to the last man, but reinforcements had taken him by surprise and destroyed two Wraiths before they could be suppressed.

This was the point at which Mortumas had left the forces he led and set off in his command Spectre, with an escort of three Ghosts. The rest of the forces he led were to be commanded by Vlar 'Koloamee. He had immediately formulated an open-ended strategy to surprise the Humans from behind and secure Felna's side of the Mesa.

Three Wraiths in the span of a few breaths. Such waste was not unheard of amongst the Covenant, but to see such incompetence in a student… that was a travesty that turned Mortumas's blood to fire, which cooled to a cold, steely resolve when a _Kig-Yar _had picked up a communicator and reported that Felna's infantry contingent had been almost entirely wiped out. Just before the humans had destroyed the Spirit dropship, which never had the chance to deploy the bridge. That left one side of the plateau completely unguarded. Should the humans take flight and flee in that direction, only divine intervention on the part of the Forerunners could stop them.

One could train a warrior, lead him to reason and spend a lifetime instructing him in the art of waging war, but it was impossible to eliminate the base characteristics of a student's nature. Mortumas had trained Felna in sparring matches and drills, and knew that he was a capable, if unimaginative fighter. Such a foundation was ruined by arrogance, which in turn was swelled by the expectations of his house. Felna chaffed under Mortumas, hungered to be out of the shadow of a more capable master. And now, when Mortumas had woven him into one of his famously intricate assaults, Felna had given into his pride and upset the balance by striking out on his own.

Mortumas understood the motivations behind his pupil's rebellion, but could not forgive him. His actions bled from arrogance and willful blindness, two things Mortumas had counseled him against and tried to train out of him. The punishment would fit the crime, as dictated by the Docha Donom.

The whole Spectre lurched to the side, and Mortumas fought for a hold on his seat as the driver activated the boosting in order to keep the vehicle upright. As the Spectre yawed to the left, Mortumas caught sight of a Scorpion in a hull-down position, covered in foliage.

The tank got off a second shot, which tore the Spectre's turret off. The right side of the Spectre was a mess from the first shot, with the armor hanging held on only by a twisted strap of metal. As the escorting Ghosts raced to catch the Scorpion in a pincer movement, Mortumas dismounted from his seat and ordered the driver to turn the left side of the Spectre to the Scorpion.

The Scorpion lurched out of the ditch it was housed in, and fired one last shot at the Spectre. The driver was unable to turn it around fast enough, and the shell hit the right side of the rear armor. The right side caved in and the power died, unceremoniously dropping the Spectre onto the ground.

Had the humans been watching, they would have been alarmed to see the Field Marshall wink out of existence, for the Sangheili you couldn't see was infinitely more dangerous than the Sangheili you could see. Instead, they focused on backing the Scorpion into denser foliage, where the Ghosts couldn't easily follow. The tank fired again, and hit one of the Ghosts directly in the front. It wasn't a critical hit, but the driver was forced to bail out before it died completely.

Mortumas had gained speed and leaped over the Scorpion's tracked bogies onto the chassis, right over the crew compartment.

Already, the plasma sword was in his forehand and ignited. The focused energy in the blade easily separated the electronics and hardened steel of the barrel, slicing the gun off where it joined the turret. Mortumas spun and continued the slash deep into the turret. He cut through the machine gun and then deep into the turret, bisecting the firing chamber for the main cannon.

Beside his left hoof, the gunner hatch was flung open and a shotgun protruded through the opening. The gunner couldn't see Mortumas, but he saw the energy blades floating in midair and could guess where he was. The Field Marshall sidestepped the first shot and kicked the hatch closed, which was followed by a muffled scream of pain from inside.

Mortumas then knelt down and impaled both hatches. It took milliseconds to penetrate the ceramic armor, where Covenant-made Energy Blades would have been stalled for several heartbeats. But then, to even dream of Covenant devices meeting the specifications of their Forerunner antecedents went beyond heresy. One may as well dream of the seas floating above the sky.

Mortumas stepped down from the cloven Scorpion and strode quickly to the wreck of his Specter, which was quickly being consumed by fire. The sword came to life again and, where it had taken lives before, now it saved one. Mortumas sliced open the windshield that entombed the driver, and then pulled the Sangheili out.

Mortumas laid the comatose Sangheili against a tree. His driver, his acting adjutant, his investment, his shield, his shadow. Like so many of the warriors beneath Mortumas 'Kandonomee, he was a warrior of humble breeding with a heart of tempered iron. To leave such a warrior to die, as many devout commanders would, was unthinkable to the Field Marshall.

He brought the blade down and cut a thin line from his driver's shoulder to his foreheart, lest the blade be sheathed without drawing blood. An old tradition without anything but symbolic value, but a tradition that dated back to the great Sangheili commanders who were legend when the Covenant was newly founded.

One of the Ghosts flitted near. The front was riddled with bullet holes, as it had received the full brunt of the Scorpion's wrath.

"What is to be our course of action?" the driver asked.

Mortumas did not have to consider the matter. They would have to fall back to a solution that left too much open to chance; to use the Banshees to hunt down and destroy any escaping Pelicans. "We regroup with our faction. We are too few to eliminate Felna Danatee's opposition and his survivors are too few to change the tide of this battle."

The driver almost offered Mortumas his Ghost, so as to speed the Field Marshall's return to command, but he was interrupted by a third Ghost crashing through dense foliage into the clearing. It was not, as he first thought, covered with broken shrubbery. It had been painted with Human camouflage.

The Human had the advantage of surprise, and before anyone could react, he had tagged the damaged Ghost with a plasma grenade and attacked the warrior who had been dismounted by the Scorpion.

After the plasma grenade went off, Mortumas and the Human were alone in the clearing, and the Human held the advantage in speed, maneuverability, and armor. It was a classic equation that Mortumas had explored repeatedly. The Ghost driver had the advantage against small groups of infantry, but there were counters that could easily allow the infantry to win, unless the Ghost driver had been trained to recognize and evade these counters.

The most effective maneuver would be to engage the Ghost while a compatriot moved in a ninety degree arc around the Ghost, so that the Ghost would have to expose its flanks to attack either of the soldiers... unless the Ghost repeated the maneuver around one of the attackers so it could engage both within a 22.5 degree arc of fire...

Mortumas was, unfortunately, working alone, and the best attack he had was to simply draw the Human close and force him to make a mistake.

He stole a plasma rifle from his comatose driver and, along with his own rifle, fired at the Ghost. The suppressing fire along with the cover Mortumas was in, should-

The Human stopped firing the plasma cannons, paused, and then lobbed a plasma grenade at Mortumas.

Mortumas watched the grenade more intently than he would watch a game animal. At the right moment, he blocked the grenade with his rifle and threw the rifle back at the Human.

The Marine didn't have time to react: the plasma grenade exploded just before the rifle hit the Ghost. The hovercraft was caught in the blast wave and bounced off the ground with a squeal of protesting metal.

This was the moment of weakness, and Mortumas took full advantage of it. By the time he had drawn his sword, he had taken a running leap and was bearing down directly on the hood of the Ghost.

The Human recovered quickly and did not panic, or perhaps his instinctual reaction was one of the few that Mortumas could not counter. He gunned the Ghost's engines and rammed into Mortumas. The Field Marshall scrabbled for purchase on the hood and was thrown to the ground when the Marine hit the brakes.

On his way down, he twisted his wrist and plunged the sword into the Ghost. His momentum pulled the blade across the hood and through one of the plasma cannons. Mortumas's victory was short-lived, though, as the Ghost lost power and hit the ground, pinning his legs.

* * *

Montag was surprised, but he'd been continuously surprised for the past few seconds. First the grenade (A neat trick he'd have to remember), then the attack, and finally the Ghost. He was now without wheels (Or repulsorlifts, as things were), but he could deal with that later; he had an animal to put down.

He drew the Rifle out of the duct-tape and denim holster and stepped out of the Ghost. Already, he'd gone through the execution in his head, and knew it wouldn't be any more difficult than a farmer shooting a lame pig. He flipped the safety on the Rifle off with more noise than was necessary, just to let it know what sort of fate awaited it.

Academically, Montag knew that Elites could flip a Ghost one-handed. It never occurred to him that they might be able to exert the same force with a kick, and he barely had time to dive for cover when the Ghost rolled his way.

The Elite twisted and launched itself to its feet before the Ghost rolled twice. It was moving like greased lightning, warrior and sword flowing together, and the blade twirled fast enough to leave contrails. Dancing like a firefly.

Montag instinctively knew that he wouldn't have time to aim the Rifle, so he switched tactics. From the pouches on his right leg, he drew a fragmentation grenade and pulled the pin.

The Elite was already standing over Montag and kicked the grenade out of his hand. Montag had already, however, ignited a plasma grenade and dropped it by his side.

The Elite played the caution card and leaped away. Montag scooped up the Rifle and rolled from his kneeling position. He found cover behind a tree just a meter behind him.

The overpressure ripped off bark, narrowly missing him on either side of the tree. That was his cue to activate the rifle view on his HMD, come out of cover, and start shooting.

He caught sight of the Elite and did a snap shot, only to be amazed. The Elite was already moving and didn't quite dodge the bullet, but it was close enough as made no difference. It leaned back and to the right so that a center-mass shot hit the chest at a narrow angle and skimmed off, like a rock skipping across water. The second shot missed altogether.

Montag dropped to one knee, desperate to make the rest of his bullets count. The Elite had sidestepped over to a sapling whose trunk was barely bigger around than Montag's wrist, cut through the trunk at waist level, and then again a meter higher.

Montag fired a third time as soon as the Elite presented its chest and scored a direct hit. He fired again as fast as the firing mechanism had completely cycled, but the Elite was still standing. The alien plucked the tree segment out of midair, twirled it like a baton, and threw it like a professional baseball pitcher.

Montag saw it tumbling end over end, growing bigger in slow motion until it crashed into him and knocked him to the ground.

He lay there. He knew he was going to die. He could hear the Elite's hoofbeats drawing near. But all he could think of was whether he'd gotten the past twenty seconds on video.

* * *

Mortumas picked up the human by the throat and nudged the helmet aside so he could clearly see the creature's face.

This Human had delayed Mortumas, and destroyed what available transport he'd had. Whatever chance he once had to return to his forces and renew the assault had been cast aside by the rashness of his most junior pupil and the further interference of the Marine.

But the crysis that saw the mortification of one pupil saw the ascension of the other. No more transports had flown overhead, and the Wraiths were still firing away. Some Humans were still trapped inside their base, which was a victory mixed with defeat. If Mortumas or his student could chase down the escaped transports, the situation would be salvaged.

But there was still the Human at hand to consider. Its actions were only worthy of attention because of circumstance, but were not entirely unworthy of respect. Mortumas pondered the matter for a heartbeat, and then settled upon impaling the creature through the foreheart. A coup-de-gras reserved for lack-honor Sangheili, as well as hunt-worthy animals.

* * *

Montag didn't know why the Elite hadn't killed him yet. He was face-to-face with the thing, naked without the helmet, and every repulsive feature was only enhanced by the adrenaline running through Montag's veins. He saw everything in high fidelity, from the blunt scales to the unhealed scars on the exposed skin to the rough hide where Evolution should have put a real jaw if it had any sense. But what commanded his attention was his own throat. The Elite was actually _touching _him. The rough skin digging into his own sent waves of revulsion through him, teamed up with the smell of stale saliva to conjure bile to his mouth.

Funny. He'd always thought that it would feel smoother, with a mild buzz, like Jackal shields.

His next thought was one of dawning comprehension. The xeno's shields were down.

Montag's right hand was moving already, even though he wasn't sure what to do. His eyes shifted from the glowing sword in the Elite's hand to the Handgun he'd drawn from his holster. At the back of his mind, Montag had known he was holding it. He'd felt the familiar weight and the polymer grip clenched between his fingers and his sweaty palm. But now that he was fully aware of it being in his hand and fully loaded with the safety off, he knew what to do with it.

In his other hand, Montag had drawn a fragmentation grenade from a slot on his belt. He dropped it on the Elite's hoof, hoping that it was unfamiliar enough with the weapon to fail to notice that the pin was in place.

The Elite saw it as it landed on the ground and tightened its grip on Montag as it began to jump away from the explosive grenade, but Montag had already rammed the gun between the Elite's mandibles and pulled the trigger before it could stop him.

* * *

Montag pushed the Elite's carcass off his own body; it wasn't easy. It seemed to weigh as much as a Warthog, and it was bleeding all over him.

Filthy xeno. Thought they were God's warriors, but stupid enough to fall for basic feints.

He looked around, but he didn't see what he was looking for. Instead of a crater and an incinerated handle, the handle (no, hilt was the right word) was still intact, minus the energy blades.

Montag cautiously picked it up, half-expecting it to go off like a dud grenade. It was a strange bronze color, more angular than what he'd expect of a Covenant weapon. And the grip was... uncomfortable. It seemed like it was designed for three fingers and two thumbs, not four fingers and one thumb, or two fingers and two thumbs.

Montag shifted his grip on the handle, and the blade extended with the familiar hiss-hum. He stared through the blade. It was a very light shade of blue, and the silhouette seemed wrong somehow.

As he considered the matter, Montag's eyes drifted over to the form of the fallen Elite. Its armor would have seemed normal from a distance, but up close the shape of the armor plating was all wrong, and the breastplates were covered in silver scrollwork. The tooling was intricate, with vines, culverts, and whorls all artfully done with fine silver thread. Even bullet holes had been patched in and disguised without breaking the pattern, the mark of a master armorer.

Using the Handgun so he wouldn't actually have to touch the Elite, Montag flipped the head over to one side. It reminded Montag less of a lizard and more of a velociraptor. Distinctly reptilian and repulsive, and undeniably intelligent.

The visible eye stared at Montag, a deep, infinite well, a glassy marble coated with a few grains of dirt and a trickle of blood.

Montag couldn't help but grin. For the briefest of moments last night, he'd considered stalking and killing high Covenant officers on the ring as a last act of defiance. Now that he'd abandoned that idea in pursuit of grander schemes, such a prize wandered into his path. If it was a sign, it could only be a good one.

Across the clearing, where Montag had first seen the Zealot, a lone Elite in grey armor stood unsteadily and charged Montag. Montag had seen it earlier and dismissed it as a corpse. With the burns and the sheets of blood coating so much of its skin and armor, what else could it have been?

Montag raised the Handgun and shot it cleanly in the chest, where the armor plating left the skin bare. It went down and didn't stir.

By now, a grin was plastered over Montag's face. A slightly malevolent grin that bared the teeth and proclaimed "Ain't life grand?" The grin refused to fade away as Montag put his helmet back on and considered his situation. The Covenant had the base surrounded, and controlled all exits from the plateau. Fighting his way across the Covenant's portable bridges where the land bridges used to be was suicide, and Montag had no intention of committing suicide yet. The only other option was to retreat to the base and escape with the rest of the Marines. But to get past the Banshees and the lances, he'd need speed, camouflage or...

Montag's eyes fell on the not-quite-a-wreck of the Scorpion at the edge of the clearing.

… a lot of armor.

He'd qualified on the Voytek, and by extension the rest of the Rhino family. Therefore, it stood to reason that Scorpions would have a similar drive system.

He did a quick survey of the damage, external and internal, as he pulled the driver's body out of the cabin. The main cannon and the machine gun were a total loss, but Montag didn't have a gunner to fire them anyways.

He dropped into the seat and pulled the hatch closed. To start the tank, he entered his serial code into the terminal and pressed the button for the ignition. The engines fired up on the first try, and the terminal expanded to show the components in need of repair. The instrument dash, the steering yoke, the radio, all were vaguely familiar except-

Montag blinked. _Six_ pedals? That hadn't been in the Rhino!

* * *

The dual turbines roared, and the whole vehicle lurched forward, over the earthen barrier and around in a wide arc. The tank ground to a halt a second before hitting a tree, reversed direction, and did a five point turn.

Inside, Montag had found out that two of the pedals served as an innovative if not intuitive braking system, and the largest pedal was the gas pedal. What he had initially taken for the clutch was merely forward-reverse. It was pretty quick learning for forty seconds.

He drove the Scorpion back in the general direction of the base. The forest here was sparse, and one could easily drive a Warthog through here. A Scorpion, though larger, was only slightly more of a challenge due to its innate ability to plow right through anything in its path.

After half a minute of driving, the trees fell away into a clearing made by seven or eight fuel rods. Occupying the clearing was a half-dozen Jackals and a Wraith mortar that was busy lobbing plasma at the human base. The Jackals screeched and retreated back into the trees while pelting the Scorpion with their plasma pistols. While it would be immediately obvious to a human, the Jackals didn't seem to appreciate the ramifications of the missing barrel on the Scorpion's turret.

The Wraith rotated to face the Scorpion, a lumbering and hateful bull turning to face the matador. Like a single, malevolent eye, the plasma cannon focused on the Scorpion.

Montag swore. This wasn't he way it was supposed to happen, like so many other things today that had happened anyway. Faced with no other alternative, Montag shifted into what he was sure was low gear and stepped on the gas.

The tank raced into the dead zone around the Wraith, where its gun couldn't depress far enough to focus on the enemy. Montag didn't stop, and the digital speedometer crept past 35 KPH. At this speed, the tank crashed into the mortar and rocked it back on its null-grav cushion. The Scorpion slid beneath the Wraith, and Montag's foot was firmly set on the gas.

The Wraith backed up off the Scorpion and crashed through the trees behind it, the only thing between the clearing and Beta base.

* * *

**Base hangar, 1030 hours**

The Marines were down to two squads. It was impossible to get the two remaining Pelicans out through Covenant air cover. They were surrounded on all sides by artillery, only protected so long as they stayed inside the base. They were outnumbered, but had no way to know by how much.

Standing behind a barricade, Major Nathan Sherman of the United Nations Marine Corps hadn't felt this confident since he'd left the Pillar of Autumn. For what it was worth, the situation finally resembled boarding action, and it was his time to shine. And since the Marines were on the defensive, they had every advantage working for them.

"Tell the Marines to conserve their ammo. Let the vehicles do the shooting," he shouted to Sergeant Mobuto. Mobuto's reply was drowned out by the commotion from the Marines.  
A Wraith crashed out of the trees in reverse, presenting its wonderfully underarmored backside to the soldiers in the base. Sherman didn't even have to give the order: by the time he opened his mouth, a missile streaked out from one of the Pelican's wings and brushed his face with the backblast. The missile streaked out of the entrance, outpaced a rocket fired by one of the Marines, and ripped off the back of the Wraith. The secondary explosion from the reactor and the late rocket totaled the vehicle.

* * *

**Scorpion, 1031 Hours**

Montag almost pissed his pants when the Wraith blew up, largely because it was nose to nose with the Scorpion. His tank was violently shoved backwards into the ground, and he was rattled around inside the driver's cabin like a nut in a shell.

"Quit shooting at me!" he screamed, momentarily lapsing into Russian. The reply on the radio was faint, largely because they weren't speaking to him.

"What did he say?"

"I dunno, wasn't English."

While he fumbled with the gearshift, Montag glanced upward into the sky, peering through the holes in the armored hatch. He couldn't see much, but there was no mistaking the sound of a flock of Banshees that had suddenly taken an interest in him.

He pushed the gearshift into overdrive, and the Scorpion lurched. He gained speed as he rounded the burning Wraith and sped toward the Human base. The record speed for a Scorpion traveling unassisted over level, uneven terrain was reputed to be 90 kilometers per hour. Montag didn't have a prayer of reaching that speed given the damage done to the Scorpion by the Ghosts, but he tried his hardest. He was barely back on the tarmac when his radio crackled. He turned the volume up all the way, the better to hear over the commotion of missiles and Banshees around him.

"Montag, don't you dare come in through the front entrance! You'll obstruct our field of fire." Sergeant Morris shouted.

_"And wipe your feet on the doormat."_ Montag thought bitterly. It was nice to know that you're wanted. True, driving the Scorpion through the front entrance would inhibit the Marine's ability to fight back for a crucial minute, and it was also true that the Wraiths were blasting away at the area around that entrance, making it doubtful that Montag could get through there in the first place. But the only other door was at the top of the base…

"Understood, sir. I'm coming in through the top."

The flock of Banshees that had previously swarmed the Scorpion had been culled by a volley of unguided rockets and depleted uranium. The survivors had joined the ranks circling high above the base, and were strafing Montag from safety. The Major could have ordered the Pelicans to shoot the Banshees, as Argent IV missiles are capable of acquiring targets after launch, but he had evidently decided to conserve ammo. Ordinarily, Montag would have agreed with such a decision, but since _he _was the one out here…

The front-right bogie hit the edge of a turtleshell bunker welded together from plates of ship-grade Titanium A. Some mortar had caved in half of it, and the rest buckled slightly as the Scorpion climbed on top of it. Montag wrestled with the steering handles, intent on steering the Scorpion off of the bunker, but a metallic snap alerted him to the fact that something was wrong. The rapid clinking and grinding that followed indicated that whatever had happened was critical and irrevocable.

The track on the bogie that had climbed up on the bunker had snapped and pulled off. This was the track with the most contact with a surface, which meant that most of the Scorpion's traction was gone, and the uphill slope of the bunker robbed the tank of all of it's momentum. In laymen's terms, the tracks broke and Montag was dead in the water.

For one agonizing second, the Scorpion hung there. But the turret obeyed the laws of gravity and swiveled to face the ground, which upset the balance of the tank and rolled it over.

Montag's momentary panic cooled and ebbed away, like the receding tide on a tropical planet he should have visited some time when he got leave. The plasma bolts hitting the undamaged anti-mine armor of the Scorpion sounded like heavy rain that was safely locked outside while you were in bed with a good book. Bizarrely peaceful.

He reached down/up and unlocked the armored hatch above/below him. It swung free, dangling from one hinge. His backpack was carefully dropped to the ground below the Scorpion, and the Rifle followed, carefully aimed to hit the softer portions of the bag.

It felt good, not running or fighting or staying in cover, if only for a second. He was dangling upside down in a wrecked tank, held there only by his seatbelt, but the pattering had stopped. In a raging hurricane of death and wonton destruction, he'd found the eye of the storm and had been forgotten. Now, it was easy to watch the hatch swing back and forth, playing with the shadows beneath the Scorpion…

* * *

_Twelve months ago, a company started up with a plan to break into the transportation business of Siberia Prime, offering a fleet of air taxis and long distance planes. With investment capital of murky origins, ten airports had been built near freeway-hubs of Metrograd, each with a square kilometer of VTOL tarmac and runways long enough for passenger airliners._

_Just over twelve weeks ago, the company had halted construction while it defended itself in legal problems of an unspecified nature. The construction machinery sat on the finished tarmacs of the almost-finished airports, surrounded by signs claiming that "Venture Aerodyne" was opening soon._

_Twelve days ago, when the first wave of Covenant arrived, all pretenses had been abandoned. The construction machinery had roared to life and slathered nine meters of reinforced permacrete over the hangars and the terminals. Beneath the terminals and the waiting rooms, armories and hospitals had opened up, none of which had been in the publicly available blueprints._

_It goes to show how paranoid Siberians are as a culture, Montag mused. We publicly declare that we will stay and fight to the last man when the invasion begins, but we secretly make plans with the UNSC to evacuate. And beneath that secret, we prepare for battle. But Siberia wouldn't dare prepare in the open, for fear of UNSC sanctions._

_The Urban Warthog he was riding pulled off the freeway and onto the broad road leading to the airport. On either side of the road, buildings had been demolished and ground into gravel and dust. Smart-mines, what the recruits called Rats, were burrowed out there, waiting with thermal eyes and seismic sensors._

_Beside Montag, Xi Long was puzzled by what she saw. _

"_This looks so… mundane. How do you defend against Covenant assault?"_

_She was an embed, but she was still a civilian at heart. There were no tanks in plain sight, nor artillery and missile racks, and that was all she looked for. Montag had originally written her off as a Department of Public Information reject, but he'd reconsidered that position and decided to try and educate her. He'd been surprised to learn that whatever her shortcomings in tactics and military hardware were, she had a gift for soldiers. She could sit down, talk to them, and peel them apart like an onion, and then write articles and character portraits that were a darn sight closer to the truth than anybody else got._

_Xi Long would be covering the war in the East Metrograd Sector, an area the size of a few small nation-states of old Earth, but she would be stationed with Montag's company the whole time. A good thing too, as she was one of the first reporters Montag had ever met who didn't generate an impulse within him to strangle something._

"_First, this isn't a firebase. It's a center of operations for the whole Novagra Commercial District. If the Covenant reach this far into the city, we'll be fighting in our own living rooms anyway. However, Covenant infantry weapons can't project plasma beyond three hundred meters, so they would have to march a hundred meters into the minefield before they could engage us. Their vehicles can shoot from further away, but we have MLRS and tube artillery to counter that." Montag pointed at several squat bunkers, which had been unfilled fuel reservoirs two weeks ago. "And we've got vertical-launch missiles to back those up. As for aircraft, we've got Lanzers and Wolverines operating in tandem. If anything flies through here that isn't friendly, it won't fly out."_

"_So, if you were the Covenant, how would you crack this nut?"_

_Montag shrugged noncommittally. "What I would do and what they would do are two different things. I would try flying Gigas and Seraphs so low and fast that the Lanzers couldn't track them. That would minimize losses on their part, but the Covenant don't care how many soldiers they lose, so we'll see swarm tactics incurring losses of fifteen to one, our favor."_

"_But they usually glass a battlefield to prevent that, don't they?_

_Montag shifted his gaze, from the tablet PC with which she was recording the conversation to her face, framed by black hair. She was, not so subtly, steering the conversation to the elephant in the living room._

"_Quite simply, they can't glass."_

"_Zima." Xi Long said, tasting the word. "Nobody even knows what it is or what it does. Your government's press releases glorify it as your ace in the hole, but they've never given a hint as to how it works. The only thing anybody has to go on is the allusion to Old Russia's seasonal defense."_

_She was bold. Siberia Prime had done everything but declare independence from the UN, and she was dogging a ranking officer about something that made the difference between orderly resistance to the invaders and full-blown panic among the proletariat._

"_If you want the truth," Montag grumbled, "That topic is way above my pay grade. If you want an unsourced, off the record quote, I'm positive it's some sort of magnetic jamming system. I've heard that the Covenant mount similar devices on their ships."_

_Xi Long looked at him, impassive behind that photojournalist mask, behind Asian features that Russians had once feared as much as they feared blond hair and blue eyes._

"_So," she asked. "What makes you think that?"_

"_I'm just reading in between the lines. If we can build something like that, I'm pretty sure it would prevent the Covenant from using their plasma weapons to glass Siberia Prime. It would be like using a flamethrower with a leaky nozzle."_

"_So, even if Governor Vladishov doesn't tell you how he can guarantee your safety, you still choose to fight for him?"_

_This was going too far._

"_Again, this is off the record. Not even background, understand? I could have gotten my fiancé off this iceball eleven days ago, no problem whatsoever. I didn't, and that's how much I trust the people running this colony."_

_Lies, Montag had learned, come in all shapes and flavors. He'd begged and pleaded with Vera, but she'd flatly refused to go. That argument had gotten ugly fast, and Montag was positive that he was the only commissioned officer in history to be thrown out by his fiancé in the middle of a declared war zone._

_The Urb-hog pulled into a parking garage, one story tall and five stories deep. There was a brief pause at the checkpoint security, and then the hog drove deeper into the garage. Montag said a polite goodbye to Xi Long before leaving the vehicle and making his way back out of the garage. It took a few minutes of walking, and Montag took a shortcut through the newly furnished vehicle shop, complete with bulging shelves of spare parts and machine tools UNSC mechanics could only dream of._

_The cold wind blew wisps of fine snow between his legs as he exited through an armored door and walked up behind a figure wearing a greatcoat over his armor. The soldier was sheltered behind a permacrete pillar, pensively watching a team of mechanics repair a gunship in the distance._

"_Major Mirkov__?" Montag asked, saluting crisply._

_"__Senior Specialist Montag," Mirkov__ returned, speaking with the slight English accent that indicated time spent in the UNMC, and hence genuine experience in a military. "Have you seen these before?"_

_Beyond them, technicians were huddled around a gunship in the protective wind shadow of a concrete and steel lean-to, effecting last-minute repairs to an engine. An aviation buff would notice similarities between the gunship and the Sparrowhawk, but the tail was thicker and more angular, and where there was a cabin on the Sparrowhawk, the armor came down to form a hood, not unlike the shroud of a mythical wraith, a cowl around the radar and infrared eyes. Most noticeable of all was the absence of ducted fans and wings in favor of two large, agile jets._

_"__Reavers…" Montag breathed. "Last time I checked, Banshees slaughtered them. Why are they here?"_

_Major Mirkov__ shrugged. "We've got them working in groups now, wolfpacks. Better programming, I guess. Why are they here? Because drones don't need trained pilots to fly them."_

_The technicians screwed a panel back on the engine and backed off. Slowly, the Reaver came to life. The sensors and the running lights turned on and blinked in rapid succession, warning the ground crew of an impending takeoff. Through the wind, Montag heard turbine engines roaring to life as the thin snow around the gunship melted._

_The Reaver rose into the air. It took off much to slow to compare it to a falcon or another bird of prey, more like a beast of the air waking up from a slumber and slowly taking to wing. At thirty meters of altitude, it performed systems checks. The klieg lights turned on, rotated, and turned off while the autocannon in the belly tracked the white spots of light on the ground. The Reaver gyrated from side to side, avoiding simulated projectiles while it tested targeting and reloading systems, the rotating racks of missiles and rockets completing the dance. It was far too coordinated to be a mere vehicle; it was an elegant weapon, a machine in which engineers had entrapped the soul of a feral predator._

_Thus prepared, it flew off to join its pack, somewhere off in the snowstorm. As it flew over Montag, he savored the hot downdraft that tore at his helmet and greatcoat._

_The Reaver, once a mechanical hound for hunting Innies; now a dog of war, a wolf. They had once hunted like bloodhounds, with Argus drones flying ahead of them and identifying the fugitives. Now, it seemed that their only companions were each other._

_There was no question in Montag's mind as to why Reavers were being fielded. There was no time, had been no time for pilots and gunners to be trained well. Replacing men with machines was as automatic on the battlefield as it was in the factory. Doubtless, Mirkov__ was thinking along similar lines, with the same pessimistic antipathy._

_"__How are the Volksrecruits?" Montag asked, dreading the answer._

_"__Inexperienced. God help us if they can't learn fast." The Major said to Montag's dismay. "They can shoot and they know rank, but they don't know combat. Most of what they think they know came from TV and those bastard moviemakers at the Department of Public Information. One private even referred to me as 'Comrade Major'."_

_"__What did you do?"_

_"__I gave him a thorough tongue-lashing and demoted him on the spot."_

_Montag didn't understand. "But there is no rank below private."_

_Mirkov__ laughed. "Of course. And by the time he figures that out, I will have found another way to punish him."_

_Montag snickered, and Major Mirkov stepped closer to the door leading back into the garage. What had been a simple door to get out of was now a ceramic-graphite slab of armor that prompted them for retinal scans and verbal passwords. Before the Major could enter, Montag decided to ask him something that could not be asked inside, where the higher ranks might hear them, or some of the lower ranks._

_"__How long will it take to train the men?"_

_The Major had thought over this matter for the three long years he'd been in on the planet-wide conspiracy, and he was still thinking about it. "The combined armor men say that they can hold off the brunt of the Covenant forces for another eight days. We can give our men guns and armor by then, but we can only begin to teach them the instincts they'll need in the street fighting."_

_Montag too had seen this problem coming a long way off, and had done what he could about it. If you had made the correct preparations, it was remarkably easy to quadruple the size of your standing army. Once you stockpiled enough weapons, you train the soldiers you have for jobs three ranks above their official pay grade, and then you promote them immediately when the enemy shows up. Now, you are free to fill the lowest ranks with volunteers from your population, and hope that your sergeants and captains and lieutenants can all train them fast enough._

_Montag found himself alone, mulling over his options, Siberia Prime's options. He was only one man, and he had only a small understanding of the forces at work in this conflict; military, civil, social, economic, and political. Not just between the Covenant and Humanity, but between the UNSC and Siberia Prime, between the Consolidationists and Didactic coalitions, between the military under the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the business interests figureheaded by Governor Vladishov. _

_Elementary Chaos Theory held that you couldn't predict the outcome of a complex event without knowing all the minute parts, down to a blink of an eye or a twirl of a snowflake._

_Montag sat down on a mound of ice, melted and frozen by the construction machines, and then sculpted by the wind. He gazed at a low flying Covenant cruiser in the distance, possibly no more than ten kilometer above the buildings below it. Its shields were pulsing and flashing in tune to the fireworks around it._

_Siberia Prime would win, of course, but at what cost? Many citizen-soldiers would be killed, and many more would die by accident. They had no training to take over them in combat, and no experience in fighting alongside artillery and support craft. They would die, and they would die in the worst way possible: At random. _

_Montag had guessed the outcomes of his previous campaigns because he hadn't gambled. But now that he was gambling against the house, the temptation to hedge his bet was overwhelming. Vera had flat-out refused to go offworld, but if he worked behind the scenes, pulled rank and called in favors, he could get her transferred deeper into Metrograd._

_The cruiser was now raking the area beneath it with lasers, mere point defense weapons intended to destroy missiles in a vacuum, and ill-suited to destroy armored vehicles in surface atmosphere._

_Montag sighed and squeezed the tip of a cigarette, breaking a plastic seal that lit the little coffin nail. He cupped his hand as he did this so as to obscure the glowing tip. Smoking without covering was a sure way to get tagged by an Innie sniper or a Jackal marksman. Old habits die hard._

_Since the nicotine wasn't working fast enough, he set his radio to flip through the channels he had access to. One thousand and twenty four general channels for this commercial district, and many more squad and command frequencies. Some of it was static, some of it might as well be, but it was all important to somebody._

"_Miniguns dry. Returning to-"_

"_Light infantry infiltrating Lublanska Hills Factory Comp-"_

"_All clear. 4__th__ squad, proceed down Yum-"_

"_Kssshhhhh-"_

"_SRS team finished, returning to base."_

"_-ring the Refugees around the back of the base and we'll-"_

"_This is the Krazny October. We are in position and ready to fire on com-"_

"_-at the intersection of Ana Highway and-"_

"_Dmitri! Fire the panz-"_

_Something clicked. All of the general transmissions, all of the channels cut out. A voice replaced the static, an icon of defiance and resolve in the face of chaos and destruction. Governor Vladishov himself._

"_The Commercial Counsel of Siberia Prime thanks you for your esteemed visit, but regrets that the whole planet is closed for business. If you would like to leave your name and the name of a planet where you can be contacted when we open again, please do so."_

_Montag grinned at the thought of the Covenant being treated as stubborn and rather unwelcome business clients. If the captain of that distant warship received the rebuke, he didn't heed it._

"_We would like to assure you that as soon as our business is resumed, announcements will be made in all appropriate news channels and stock outlets, and our clients will once again be able to select from the very best of contemporary military hardware and consumer goods." Here, Vladishov's voice lost some of the jocular tone and took upon a sharper edge. "Meanwhile, we thank our clients for their kind interest and ask them to leave. Now."_

_He was talking to the Covenant, broadcasting on open frequencies with the encryption switched off. It was brilliant, and the soldiers would eat it up. To be able to shape the course of history, not by the written but by the spoken word… It was awe-inspiring to those who could see it._

_Dropships continued to fly back and forth to the cruiser, and the ship continued to target human positions with the point-defense lasers._

"_It is most gratifying that your enthusiasm for our planet continues unabated, and so we would like to assure you that the guided missiles currently converging with your ship are part of a special service we extend to all of our most enthusiastic clients, and the fully armed nuclear warheads are of course merely a courtesy detail. We look forward to your custom in future lives... thank you."_

_Before Montag could react to the word "Nuclear", a dozen objects no bigger than a beach ball raced across the sky at hypersonic speeds. Too fast for the human eye to track, even though they were kilometers up in the sky. Indeed, they were too fast for the overwhelmed Covenant defenses to track and destroy. And all but one of the objects- multiple independent reentry vehicles- were dummies with a sphere of depleted uranium inside._

_Montag blinked and shaded his eyes as one of the MIRVs detonated. A five hundred kiloton sun bloomed and banished the night. The whole city was lit as clear as it would be on a clear summer day. Distantly, Montag thought he could see the cruiser with its side glowing brilliantly, like the most radiant quicksilver._

_Throughout the city, Lanzer batteries opened up, and 25mm rods of graphite-coated vanadium steel sought out the spaceship. After the nuke, the armor would be too soft to sufficiently stop the rounds, and the innards of the cruiser were too soft to withstand such a projectile._

_Montag averted his gaze, and found that, though he had his eyes closed when the nuke went off, there was still a brilliant white spot in his vision._

_Siberia Prime had nuclear weapons, in clear violation of UNSC law. Nation-planet, colony, or settlement, the only faction allowed to stockpile atomics was the UN itself. It was anybody's guess as to what other violations Siberia Prime had up her sleeves._

_At which point does defense become rebellion? When does security require independence?_

_When would, Montag wondered, he be torn between his sworn loyalty to the UNSC and his native loyalty to Siberia Prime?_

_Distantly, far removed from Montag's thoughts, the blazing cruiser crashed into the Porsche residential district, flattening buildings for kilometers._

* * *

**A/N: Alright, you can put down the torches and pitchforks. I've updated. Next up: Nightmare. The weird thing is, this chapter (and the next one) were written in parts, scattered throughout three notebooks and one bakery napkin (containing diagrams related to the particulars of Ghost tactics) That's pretty unusual for me, and it was a real bugger when I misplaced the notebook with the Montag-Mortumas fight. Which turned up beneath my computer desk. On the plus side, I got a laptop for graduation, which allows me to type this stuff up in bed, without the temptation to waste hours of work on internet forums!  
**

**I had to split this chapter in two, so as to ensure that it is shorter than the last one. I've been told that the last one was way too long to read in one sitting. The good news is that the next chapter is 95% written, so for the first time in over a year and a half, I'll probably update twice within the same month.  
**

**Well, a lot has transpired since I last posted. Politics aside _(Obama gets elected, breaks two thirds of his campaign promises, and the two parties are still going after each other with icepicks)_ and popular culture aside _(Some performing monkey with a messed-up childhood dies, successfully distracting the world from a potentially beneficial revolution in Iran) _a lot has happened to the Halo Franchise since I last updated. More on that on my profile, but one more thing...  
**

**ODST comes out in forty eight hours, which is almost more excitement than I can handle. I just hope the story is better than the last two Halo Installments.  
Firefight looks awesome. The non-linear campaign sounds awesome. But the real selling point is who we're playing as: ODSTs.**

**Next on the wishlist: StarCraft II: Liberty's Crusade.  
**


	23. Burnin' For You

_**Call it a lucky break, if you will. The Cruiser that crashed into the residential district is way too damaged for the Covenant onboard to repair. That means that they have to divert spacecraft, fighters, soldiers, and fuel to fighting us off and pounding this city. If we're going to win this battle, this is how we'll do it. Make the xenos fight with one hand behind their back.**_

_**Major Stefan Mirkov, Urban Defense, Siberian Armed Forces

* * *

**_

**1049 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Burning Scorpion 30 meters upspin of Beta Base entrance  
Halo**

A shrill alarm barely warned Montag before canisters of flame-suppressant foam burst and flooded the driver's compartment. A nasty surprise, and a rude way to wake up. He choked back a mouthful of the stuff and released his seatbelt, grabbing onto what little he could to slow his fall through the hatch onto the ground.

His first guess was an engine fire. Pools of flaming liquid pouring from the front end of the Scorpion proved him right.

A heavy thump to his side startled him, and he saw the crumpled form of the gunner, with the head split open where it had hit the ground. The helmet, lying ajar, betrayed thin crevasses and warped material where an energy blade had sliced through them.

Montag had just enough room to hold the Rifle up out of the spreading mound of foam and squirm out from beneath the Scorpion, and pull his backpack along with him. He was covered with the yellow-white stuff, and probably looked like a yeti from a distance. He crawled beneath the inverted bogies of the tank, trying not to heed the hissing of hot fragments of ceramic armor. A quick glance up at the heavens confirmed that the coast was clear.

Montag shouldered the backpack, heaved himself up from his crouching position, and ran like hell.

* * *

**Upspin Face of Beta Base, 1051 Hours**

The right sleeve from his fatigue, the part from the elbow forward, had been ripped off and soaked in water from a canteen. Montag had then tied it over his mouth and his nose, to ward off the smell of molten rock and hot metal. It wasn't working as well as he remembered it had last time. He was, however, mostly protected from the heat and fire by virtue of the fire-suppressant foam that had died down and turned into a greasy film that matted his clothes and skin, turning dark with ash.

Montag had never realized how much liquid glass a Wraith Mortar produces. Usually, the glass was contained by the crater from which it came, but on the steep sides of the base, it had run downhill in streams and rivers. Vegetation burned back, and a few fires stayed put and burned across the face of the hill, but most of what didn't travel back uphill burned itself out.

Curious, Montag picked up a stone and tossed it into the dull red stream. The glass parted like thick pudding, and the stone stopped a dozen centimeters in. The stuff was solidifying pretty fast, but the fact that it was spreading out and getting cooled by the wind was probably to blame for that.

Montag continued on. The glass had cleared away foliage and crumbled a few cliffs, turning a five minute trek around ledges and bushes into a two minute hike up hot rockfalls and beds of embers. Jesus alone could walk on water, but Montag could pick his way through a fire. He might have even made a decent firefighter, had he not grown up in a snowbound metropolis of fireproofed concrete buildings.

Besides, fire was best used as a tool. One that contained, sterilized, and reduced problems to ashes. Not exterminated with messy liquids, but focused, guided, and encouraged.

The stream of molten rock led to several, and then to one very large crater, where a pool of metal from the point-defense cannons remained. Caustic gasses were still pouring out of the crater, and Montag stepped back with the taste of hot metal in his mouth and radiant heat that turned the sweat on his face into steam.

He ducked into the bushes, away from the oppressive heat. The glassing had created a strong wind that was racing up all sides of the base, the same thing as what happens when you napalm a bunch of Innies camped out on a hill. It cooled the area enough for the bushes to survive, and enough for Montag to plan.

The first thing he noticed was that the bottom of the crater, and the craters connected to it, was unusually smooth and completely the wrong color. He picked up a fallen branch, or what might have been a sapling, and reached out with the skinny end to scrape at the glass. It peeled off and revealed a patch of slate grey. It was the material that the whole Ringworld seemed to be made of.

Sure, Montag intellectually knew that the Ringworld was not natural, but it was still a minor surprise to realize that the Base wasn't a mountain hollowed out to form a structure, but a structure with dirt, rocks and plants layered on top. It was rather humbling, but Montag had other thoughts to pursue.

The top of the base had been glassed, with the craters combining to form a sort of moat, as far as Montag could see. The 'moat' was thicker where the cannons had been, but it was only a centimeter or two deep at most, since the molten glass had drained downhill.

Beyond the moat, just offset from the center of the base, Montag could see the shelter where the elevator into the base was. Safety was so close, and yet fate had seen it fit to put a bed of molten rock between him and peace.

Montag turned on his heel and thought hard. How did those Indonesians walk on hot coals? He'd seen a show about that on the history channel, sandwiched between an infomercial for a revolutionary new model of clothes iron and before a documentary entitled _Disaster Aboard the Heaven's Gate. _

If the science consultants for that show could be trusted (Always something to doubt, since they were working for a television show) the ability to withstand walking on hot coals stemmed from a life of walking barefoot, and the fact that the coal-walking ceremony was done early in the morning...

When there was dew on the grass that they would walk through.

Montag lifted one foot and checked the sole. It was temperature stable synthetic rubber, impregnated with a mat of Kevlar and studded with single-crystal corundum hobnails. They were a very nice pair of boots, and he was going to miss them.

He kneeled down and tore at the patchy and dehydrated grass until a circular spot of dry soil was exposed. Into this the rest of the water in Montag's canteen was poured, and then mixed until it was a thick paste. Montag scooped it up and slathered it on the bottom of each boot and the cuff of his fatigues.

He didn't give the muck enough time to dry or fall off. As soon as he was out of mud, he scooped up his backpack and the Rifle and ran flat-out to the crater. He jumped as hard as he could on the ashy lip, and landed two meters out in the glass. Montag slipped and almost lost his balance, which caused him to panic and teeter a little bit more before the hobnails found purchase on the metal beneath the glass. Alarmed even further by the immediate hissing of steam, he jumped another two meters, and again, skipping over Hell until he was across.

It seemed like it had been an eternity, but the clock on his HMD insisted that he'd only spent three seconds out on the glass. Three seconds, five jumps. He crawled up the embankment of hot, ashy dirt, which burned every time it touched his bare skin, and was unbearable to crawl through even with gloves.

Montag resisted the urge to laugh. He didn't have a reason to laugh, or maybe he did. He'd just sprinted over a moat of liquid glass, because a promise of safety was on the other side! Would that seem funny to the lunatics around him, who were only 'sane' by majority rule? Their deepest desire was to live, but they couldn't take the necessary steps to stay alive. They fought for their homes, their freedom, and Mom's apple pie, but they never stopped to think about what those things meant.

With a titanic surge of effort, Montag reached the lip of the crater and rolled over the side. There was a shady bush that had escaped the wall of heat and radiation of the mortar blast, and therefore was perfect for shelter. Under that bush, Montag pulled off one of his boots and examined the sole. At the edges, the rubber was warped and a little gooey, which did not bode well.

He took out the Knife and stuck it into the ash that had been mud thirty seconds before. It flaked away like cinders, and he slowly pulled the caked debris off the boot in one piece. A lot of rubber and a few hobnails came with it, exposing the Kevlar in some places. What he held looked like industrial waste, fly ash sandwiched between volcanic glass and putrid rubber, in the shape of a size thirteen footprint. It was still too hot to touch with bare hands, and smelled awful.

Montag smiled. Only a sane person could have done this: a person who could objectively evaluate a situation and act accordingly. A person who could drop compassion, mercy, and self-preservation at will. Indeed, that was the only kind of person who could survive in a warzone, barring random chance. The insane ones, who maintained ideals about national loyalty and 'holding the moral high ground with honorable combat', they only lived because of chance, although sheer weight of numbers helped.

He dug the Knife into his left sole and pried off the solidified glass, not caring anymore whether it came off in one piece or not.

"Get up and get moving, Montag."

Montag glared mournfully at the Shadow standing above him. Without resistance, he stood up, shouldered his backpack, and followed it to the center of the Base..

He saw dead people. Which, of course, was a common symptom of psychological duress, a common mental affliction on the battlefield. One could even say he was ahead of the curve, since he could distinguish between the bodies that were there and the ones that were merely the result of an unfortunate imbalance in brain chemistry. He wasn't going to take nonsensical orders from an imaginary friend, but his imaginary antagonists often came with good advice.

The Shadow glanced over its shoulder. "Get the Major on the phone. Tell him to prep any remaining Argents."

Montag blinked. "What?"

"The Xenos just blew past our defenses with genuine tactics. They sure as Hell aren't going to try and storm the base through the front door."

That stopped Montag cold. He was in the middle of the Covenant landing zone.

* * *

**Grounded Pelican in Hangar, 1058 Hours**

Major Sherman had taken up residence inside the cockpit of the left Pelican, in the pilot's seat. The Pelican had a full radar/infrared sensor package that could be accessed by either the pilot or the gunner, sensitive enough to pick out a cooking fire from five miles away, or to detect an inbound RPG while it was still a mile off. It wasn't as useful as the designers thought it would be, as an Innie campfire was as likely to be a part of an ambush as it was to simply be some idiot cooking instant noodles. And they launched rockets as close as they could get to minimum safe distance, making the radar useless for that task.

It was still good for hunting vehicles, however, and Major Sherman was using it just for that. His suspicions had been aroused when the Covenant had stopped fighting smart and started trying to shoot into the base from directly in front, with only a copse of trees between them and Uncle Nathan's Misguided Children. Investigation with the infrared sensors showed that it was just one or two Wraiths firing, possibly with a barrier of plasma barricades in front of them. It was just a ploy to get the Marines to expend all of their ammo.

One of his communications channels lit up, one dedicated for field specialists. Hell, he didn't even know he HAD field specialists, or even someone with that frequency available on their radio.

The icon on his HMD lit up with the Marine's name. Lance Corporal Gui B. Montag, the poor sap who'd gotten creamed by the Elite last night, and was currently locked outside.

"Sir, we've got Covenant Spirits inbound, looking to land on top of the base and send troops down the elevator. If we've got Argents left, I suggest we use them."

Major Forrest licked his lips. He' d barely picked out Montag's words through the static, but the Marine was ahead of the game.

"They're Argent IV's, so you'll have to paint the targets. Do you have the-"

"I know that. Just _shoot!"_

Major Forrest was perturbed by the order, coming as it was from a middling noncom. And still, he relayed the orders to the gunner.

* * *

**Beta Base, 1059 Hours**

The first Argent streaked out of it's rack like a racehorse out of the gate. Within milliseconds, it had cleared the entrance to the base and entered a checkpoint, a cubic area about one meter on a side. Past this, it activated new instructions and angled itself one hundred degrees from its original trajectory, racing up the side of the base until it reached a second checkpoint.

Here, the infrared nosecone switched on and sought out any infrared reflection that cycled through frequencies of 75 to 100 terahertz every minute. One such reflection was sighted forty eight degrees from its current trajectory, and it modified its course again. From then on, it accelerated at forty meters per second per second until there was only two meters between it and the reflection, prompting the hollow point warhead to detonate and take out the left tine, as well as the power to the flight mechanism.

The second missile was in the air when the first one detonated, and Montag barely had time to change targets. The second Spirit he targeted was fast, or piloted by a fast Elite. The Spirit barrel rolled to the side, which made the laser designator jiggle all over it. The missile lost target, re-established, lost target again, as the dot disappeared off the end of one of the tines, and then reacquired when Montag corrected his aim.

The third Spirit cut its engines and fell out of the sky like a rock, but this clever dodge didn't get it out of Montag's sights.

Montag grinned as he sighted in on the last Spirit. It was almost like having an anti-aircraft gun in your hands, except you did nothing but point. The grin faded as the last missile failed to appear.

Unbeknownst to him, the fourth missile had flown out the entrance at the exact same moment that a Wraith mortar had hit the ground outside. The thermal burst melted the casing and fried the electronics before the warhead caught fire and exploded, a process that only took a trio of milliseconds. The last Argent was fired shortly thereafter, cleared the first checkpoint, and came far too close to an airborne plasma mortar. The infrared sensor and the paint was flash-burned, and by the time it cleared the second checkpoint and turned on the infrared sensor, there was only one thing emitting enough radiation for the damaged sensor to pick up. That was the ball turret on the underside of the aircraft, which was hosing down the trees around Montag.

Without Montag painting the target, the missile struck home. The Spirit was disarmed as the missile ripped the turret right out of it's magnetic socket, but the dropship wasn't otherwise impaired.

"Major Sherman?" Montag whispered into his mike as the Spirit flew overhead. "There's one last Spirit left. I need-"

"We're fresh out of missiles, son. Get to the elevator and we'll take care of things down here."

Montag switched his radio off. The Spirit was landing between him and the elevator, and he didn't like the idea of getting shot in the back while trying to run around it.

The Spirit hung in the air for a while longer. It was almost defiant, landing six meters from the man who'd destroyed the rest of your formation. He knew that the Covenant knew that he was here, as they'd turned the Spirit around to face him. And nothing makes an enemy's defiance worse than being powerless to do anything about it.

Against a Spirit full of Covenant, Montag was outgunned and he knew it. His immediate reflex was to retreat and fight a war of attrition, but that would only give them an excuse to call out the Wraiths, which would surely be the death of him.

Montag reached for a pocket on his backpack that was usually occupied by a handheld flashlight, but now carried a Covenant weapon inscribed with gold filigree. An Elite invisible to the naked eye or cloistered in overshields could decimate a Pelican full of Marines in seconds. Montag was neither, so he'd have to attack this problem from the flanks.

The sword ignited when it was securely held, but the blade seemed off somehow. Sure, the silhouette was more angular than normal, but strange optical illusions gave Montag a headache when he stared too close. Interesting and worth investigating, but at a later date.

Montag held the hilt in both hands as he plunged the sword into a tree with an uncanny resemblance to a Douglas Fir. He'd expected that he would have to give the plasma blade a little time to burn through the wood, but the sword cut through the tree like a hot knife through butter.

Quick thinking lead him to assume that the tree would simply fall in the general direction that the wind was blowing, if he cut all the way through on the first try. So his first cut left a concave hole in the tree, and the second cut extended the hole halfway through the trunk. A final slash took out a triangular wedge that left only a thin strip of wood and bark joining the stump to the trunk.

In this way, the tree slowly began to topple in the exact direction Montag wanted.

The Spirit had landed facing Montag, as to present a smaller target and provide maximum protection as the troops dismounted.

By the time the doors had swung open and the fastest Covenant began pouring out, the tree was falling fast. The trunk fell across the right passenger compartment and the cabin, crushing both like an empty beer can. The left tine flipped up hard enough to rip the hatch off and send a Grunt flying, its hapless wail drowned out by the clash of ripping metal and collapsing structure. The tree, already dehydrated by the Wraith glassing, burst into flames. When a coniferous tree burns, it has the right combination of air, long skinny needles and twigs, and oily, sappy wood to turn into an inferno.

Montag watched. The Covenant that had dismounted from the Spirit had been trapped beneath the wreck, and most of them appeared to be burning to death beneath the bonfire. Of course, the Grunts were going off like firecrackers, and the Jackals were far to frail to survive something like that.

A few Elites, however, were pushing against the logs that held them in place, struggling to get out even as the skin on their hands was seared off and hung loose from the bone. Montag, at some level, understood and admired the misplaced honor that forced them to walk into deathtraps and struggle against the inevitable. And yet his mouth still watered.

He hadn't expected the tree to catch on fire like that, or the Spirit to be crushed like so. It was just that strange sort of luck that took over when he didn't know what he was doing, the Devil's Hand.

Montag walked around the accidental bonfire and hurried for the elevator, where freedom and safety beckoned.

The elevator was at the very center of the mountain's peak, inside an alcove with a wide ramp leading down into it. Almost like a small parking garage, minus the cars, toll booth, and asphalt. Montag's footsteps echoed strangely as the deformed hobnails clacked against the alien metal. Charcoal and cinders had drifted into the enclave, and his stride stirred and swirled them into the air in his wake, a sort of one-man victory parade.

Below him he felt the elevator come to life, and a gust of air blew past him, carrying the ash and embers along with it. The elevator reached the top of the shaft, and Montag was facing what was left of Sierra Squad. Kanoff and Da Vega manned the rotary gun from a Warthog, while Jonesy, Dirkins, the twins, and Sergeant Morris were huddled behind plasma barricades. The twins rushed forward with Jonesy, and Montag stepped aside to let them pass.

As he neared the barricades, Morris intercepted him.

"I wasn't sure if you made it or not! You made it sound as if you were-"

He cut off as Montag stepped into the light. His fatigues were matted, oily, covered in soot, and his left sleeve had been cut off as a makeshift filter mask. The soles of his boots were visibly warped, and the leather was charred to ash in several places, exposing the steel toes. Perhaps the worst of all, he was visibly sunburned on the underside of his face and features.

"What the Hell happened to you?"

Montag shrugged and smiled at the joke he was about to make. "Lucky guess, sir."

* * *

**Hangar, 1105 Hours**

The Covenant had stopped shooting at the base. Major Sherman's fears of a successful incursion from above had been assuaged by a radio call from Sergeant Morris, assuring him that the last Covenant dropship had been eliminated, along with whatever it had been carrying.

Of course, the Covenant could probably guess that the Marines were out of guided missiles, which would make them bolder. If they had stopped firing, it was because they knew they could come in from the top and shoot anybody who tried to run out the front door.

They were in for a surprise.

At the Major's orders, the Marines had picked up the improvised heavy machine guns and the captured barricades and carried them back to the elevator. Anybody left, including Sergeant Mobuto and Major Sherman himself, loaded up hand trucks with MREs, ammo, medical kits, whatever they could take and would need. Most of it was supposed to have been taken out with the last two Pelicans, but they never had the chance.

What the Hell, Major Sherman decided. The loss to the rest of the Marines on Halo was the gain of the Marines inside this base.

Each Pelican had two fuel tanks, which could hold up to a total of two hundred liters of fuel. The armor plating had been removed, and thermite-cord had been wrapped around the midsection of each tank. Attached to the end of each cord was a detonator counting down from two minutes and thirty seconds.

Alone in the hangar, Major Sherman took one last look around the cavernous room. He'd been there for less than forty-eight hours; it was hard to think of the Base as a home. And yet, he was going to miss this place.

After quickly checking the detonators to ensure that they were counting down, he turned and ran. Through the doors, down a hall, past the rooms that had served as a bunk room, a kitchen, and an infirmary, and through another set of doors that led to the elevator.

Less than two minutes left to go. Major Sherman activated the lift.

The holographic control panel showed a shaft with three levels; the hangar, the Ops center, and the top of the base. But, beneath a series of hieroglyphs was a simple chevron pointing down. He jabbed his finger at the chevron, and the whole panel lit up. The elevator shuddered and fell out from beneath him.

Major Sherman descended deeper into Halo.

Ninety seven point three two five seconds later, the timers on the thermite-cords reached zero. A small microchip in each timer sent a thirty-two-volt current through a small wire, which heated one end of the thermite cords.

In turn, this set the ends of the cord on fire. Basically pellets of aluminum and magnesium oxide encased in a thin plastic hose, a fireball raced along it faster than the speed of sound as the aluminum atoms ripped the oxygen from the magnesium oxide, releasing extraordinary quantities of heat.. Each fuel tank was encircled by the fireball and collapsed to an hourglass shape, which burst out the ends. The fuel rushed out of the rupture, a total of four hundred liters spilling out of each Pelican. The fuel nearest the fireball ignited immediately, and the blast wave atomized the rest of the fuel.

At three hundred and thirty meters per second, a secondary explosion picked up the Pelicans and threw them towards the entrance to the base. The Covenant on the outside, some of whom had crept up close to the sides of the entrance in order to assist any assault from the top, were shocked to the point of trauma when a raging fireball surged out of the huge doorway.

On the other end of the hangar, the fireball broke open the door leading to the elevator, coursed down the hallway, and raced up and down the elevator shaft, only to rebound upon the lift as it was coming up. The column of fire reached the top of the mountain and engulfed the trees that Jonesy and the twins had knocked over to cover the entrance to the elevator.

* * *

**Forest Upspin of Beta Base, 1113 Hours**

Black billows of smoke rose from the Installation. Vlar watched the dark smoke from the gunner's seat of the Spectre. The Humans had been forced out, but made it a Pyrrhic victory. When all hope had faded, it seemed that they had set their entire fuel supply on fire, to burn out the inside of the base.

Such dedication, to turn one's last stand into a funeral pyre, was befitting of proper Sangheili warriors. Vlar had heard many decry such actions by the Humans as instinct, bred from fear and cowardice. And yet the winding passages of other tunnels led deeper into Halo. When planning the assault, the Field Marshal had expressed misgivings that the Humans would withdraw further into Halo, and planned accordingly, but plans changed.

The Spectre floated over a tank-sized gash in the forest and coasted to a stop. 'Koalomee was the last in the funeral procession. Three Elites stood in the forest, Vlar the fourth. Death filled the forest, surrounding the Sangheili like a cold, lethargic fog. Surely, She was ringing her seventh and final bell, the one that rang silence.

Vlar 'Koalomee left his seat without meaning to, drawn to the dead Field Marshal like an insect drawn to the light. The best he could have hoped for was for the gleaming armor to be red from human blood and ruined by a thousand bullets. Instead, the Mentor's head was cloven in two by a massive wound, his lifeblood spilled upon the ground without dignity.

Of the three Sangheili who stood vigil, only one betrayed signs of combat. Through the burns over his body and the bullet wound in his chest, which he had treated himself, Kriss 'Janulee had obviously come out the worse for the wear since Vlar had last seen him.

Now Vlar was closer to the fallen form of his Mentor, and hesitant to step nearer. It was not hard to imagine Death crouched over Mortumas, grooming her chosen mate for an eternal rest. So different from her sister Fate, who anointed soldiers with glory upon the battlefield and lead fallen warriors to the next struggle. Death, who cursed the mighty with long life, poisoning their hearts and their minds against faith and duty, bleeding the strength from their eyes and their limbs as they reached venerable age. Who watered down bloodlines, set sons against fathers, and let empires crumble at the whims of madmen.

Death, who had taken Mortumas's hand in a moment of weakness.

"Who has seen him like this?" Vlar demanded.

One of the Major Domos, a stalwart officer, replied "That lives, the four of us. That saw the killing blow, only Krish 'Janulee."

Vlar rounded upon the wounded Elite. "And you did _nothing?_"

Krish snarled at the rebuke, one which would have warranted a duel to the death if he had been well enough.

Vlar's hindheart softened at the perseverance of the warrior, and he flexed his neck in apology. "Forgive me. I know of your dedication and your heartstrong ancestors. If you live while Mortumas 'Kandonomee has died, then not even the Forerunner could have interdicted."

The apology did little to immediately soften Krish's anger, but the wrath in his eyes slowly faded, like hot coals in a nocturnal breeze. Meanwhile, Vlar knelt down to examine the wound and clean the Mentor's face as a last respect.

"How was he slain?"

One of the other Elites spoke up for Krish, having heard it firsthand. "The Field Marshal fought down the Human and prepared him for an honorable death, but the Human rejected the honor. He distracted Mortumas for a fatal second with a dead grenade, drew his sidearm, and murdered the Field Marshal."

A leu'kah, Vlar remembered from the traditions of his small docha. A small spirit that sold itself to Death, and bound itself into small beasts, cowardly soldiers, and innocuous objects to lead honorable Sangheili to inglorious deaths. Merely a superstition, relics of folklore left behind in childhood, but an attractive one.

"A sniper killed the Field Marshal from beyond the point of bare sight," Vlar commanded. "Let the dishonor fall upon him then, and not Mortumas. The trials he has surmounted and the enemies he has vanquished demand that his name be unsullied by a fatal moment of weakness."

"Commendable, and delivered with graceful prose," the Major Domo sneered, indicating the Field Marshal's empty hands. "But the murderer robbed the Marshal's corpse and made off with the Docha Blade."

Vlar could not say anything for a score of heartbeats, hearbeats made all the more desolate by the thunderous silence in the forest clearing. The Docha Blade, one of many such blades entrusted to the largest clans by the San Shayuum, to seal the Covenant Writ of Union. Entrusted to Mortumas as the paternal head of the Kandonom Docha. Losing that blade, one once carried by the Forerunner themselves, was a disgrace worse than Heresy.

The Field Marshal had been killed after his forces, under Vlar's command, hermetically sealed the plateau, preventing the egress of Human airships. The murderer, were it not killed crossing the perimeter, would be holed up inside the base. There was no other option but to follow it, slaughtering every human and searching them until the blade was recovered, at which point inconvenient witnesses would be permanently silenced, but not before appropriate explanations and apologies were in place.

But then, there was the worst outcome. That the Humans would die one by one, and the last (In the legends, always the last) would lay dying at Vlar's feet, proclaiming in the common language (in the legends, Gods, demons, beasts, and other lower species always spoke the language of the Sangheili) that it has thrown the precious artifact into a deep chasm to spite the Sangheili warrior. And, before Vlar 'Koalomee could wrest the location from the tip of the Human's hateful tongue, it would die, taking its terrible secret with it. All the tragedies that Vlar could remember ended in a similar fashion, and he could only convince himself of the improbability, not the impossibility, of such an outcome.

But to order the legion that was now his to follow and assault the Humans, with the goal of taking them alive, would only result in disproportionate casualties and uneasy rumormongering, even among the disciplined troops that had served under the Mentor.

With effort, Vlar resolved the fear into determination and action. If the sword was recovered, then all was well and good. If the murderer had cast it away, then teams of slave Unngoy, supervised by trusted Sangheili who would prefer the cold culling of slaves to the disgrace of the Field Marshal, would search the deepest bowels of Halo. Were the sword to be destroyed by the human, then the remains would be reunited with the Field Marshal, with the appropriate story to dissuade suspicion.

Vlar 'Koalomee, aide-de-camp and favored pupil of the late Mortumas 'Kandonomee, gazed down at Krish 'Janulee, bodyguard of the late Field Marshal. An honor guard who had bound his life to the life of Mortumas, now his only use was to break the body of the murderer, a sword that would weild itself. More dedicated, more fitting than any other warrior for the first strike against the Human.

Shon'ai...

"Tell me," Vlar commanded him imperiously. "Are you well enough to regain your honor?"

* * *

**Foundation Levels of Beta Base, 1104 Hours**

The lift descended too fast for comfort, and could have taken a little more time to slow down before stopping. Exhausted though he was, Montag rushed out of the elevator because everyone else seemed to be in a hurry. Behind him, the lift ascended, and then descended, carrying the Major with it. Nathan Sherman pushed the button for the hangar floor and jumped out of the lift before it could ascend once again. Moments later, Montag felt an ominous rumble travel through the floor, much like an explosion, but equally likely to be a cave-in somewhere.

He turned around just in time to see gobbets of fire dripping down the lift, making that curious zipping noise that burning liquid makes as it falls through the air. It took Montag a few moments longer than it should have for him to realize that it was burning fuel. Obvious; setting the fuel stores on fire, a tactic with a history of success dating back to Patton.

As he turned around, he saw that the Marines were grouping up beyond a pair of towers a quarter of a kilometer away. Too far to walk, as exhausted as Montag was in the afterglow of his triumph. Much easier to put the body on autopilot and let the mind wander.

He'd killed what was surely the Covenant General or Grand Inquisitor, the reminder of which was burning a mental hole in his backpack, and through equal application of trickery and guile, destroyed a flight of Spirits. Minor victories on the road to the ultimate goal, although the political fallout of that first act would not be insignificant.

The true victory, an item that could be crossed off the checklist, was where he was; beneath Beta Base, in tunnels that would hopefully lead to other places on Halo, ultimately to the Pillar of Autumn. He hadn't only escaped death, but he'd escaped to someplace, a much more worthwhile endeavor.

Montag found himself between the towers now, where the Marines had set up camp. Everything, from assault rifles to plasma rifles to portable turrets (Strange crosses of hand trucks and rotary machine guns taken off Warthogs) were pointed at the elevator.

Montag set his backpack down and the Rifle upon it, and laid down on his back, arms folded across his chest. He was more than exhausted, his limbs felt like he'd been pressing too much mass in too many reps, and his head was throbbing, and his neck hurt where two different Elites had picked him up-

"Enough."

Montag opened his eyes and his heart raced. The Shadow was standing over him, a cloudy, anthropomorphic enigma.

"Why are we down here?"

Montag knew what it meant. It was like talking to himself.

He couldn't have gone any other way. To get off the plateau, he'd have to fight his way through Covenant of unknown quantity and quality. He hadn't known that there were more tunnels below the base, but it was the only alternative. And it sounded plausible.

"And you didn't believe that you could, by stealth or by blitz, pass by the Covenant?" The Shadow let that sink in, along with the implication that if Montag could fight his way to the base, he could easily have fought his way off the plateau. "More likely, you imagined yourself in the Autumn, prepared to destroy the Ringworld, but hesitant, worrying about your squad. Is Jonesy dead yet? Which of the twins went first?"

Montag was almost prompted into cursing the Shadow that knew him so well. Almost."

"You didn't imagine it, of course. You didn't have to. We both _knew. _And we both _know _that you wouldn't even get to the open plains before you started doubting.

Montag had the dignity to admit when someone else was right, even when that someone else was a figment of his imagination. He'd refused to kill Lincoln in cold blood, because he was afraid of getting caught by the rest of the squad, and having to kill them to get past. He had similar qualms about blowing up the Autumn. What it said about his character, that he'd murder a green soldier he didn't care for, but not several equally green soldiers that he'd spent an hour or so talking to, didn't bear thinking about.

He knew he came across as a heartless psychopath. He'd been called some derivative of monster in at least five different languages, not counting Covenant tongues. Query: Did his growing friendship with the seven members of Sierra Squad indicate he was not a fiend?

Montag decided that was unlikely. He'd heard of a serial killer who had been genuinely surprised that he'd been caught, since he'd only been killing women one at a time, and there were just so many of them. And then, after being sentenced to life in prison (because well-meaning citizens with no clue of how the world works had forgotten the usefulness of a firing squad) he broke down into tears when he learned that his pet cat had died.

"That looks uncomfortable."

That was Kanoff, standing over him. Questions of morality fled Montag's mind.

"Dude, if you're going to lie down like that, at least take the helmet and armor off. You're making ME hurt just looking at you."

Montag's reply was to roll over on his stomach, face to the side, arms tucked underneath his body.

"Whatever. You come back from the grave, you can sleep however you like."

That perked Montag's interest. "You thought I was dead?"

Kanoff sat down, and Da Vega joined them. "It didn't occur to us until you tried to drive the Scorpion across the tarmac. After you flipped it and burned it, we couldn't hail you on the radio."

Because he'd been out of it, Montag realized. In English, 'dream' had a verb, 'dreaming'. Why didn't 'nightmare' have a similar verb complement.

"When stuff like that happens, don't hold your breath; I've been MIA at least twice. A bad habit, but one terribly hard to break."

"So, what's the story behind those other times? Is it worth telling?"

"I'd say so. A little long and drawn out, but it would make a good book if I had the patience to write them all down." Montag picked himself off the floor and sat up, fighting back a wave of nausea. "So, do you want to hear about how I was stranded in a space station over Jericho III, or how I was stuck behind enemy lines for a week in '47?"

"Montag?"

"Yeah?"

"Your nose is bleeding."

Montag glanced down. A steady stream of blood was running down his lip, beading on his chin, and dripping to the ground beneath his legs with an alarmingly regular _thip thip thip._

Quite contrary to the squad's preconceptions about Montag's relationship with medics and medicine, Montag stood up immediately and strode over to Dirkins.

"Compared to pulling your shoulder out of its socket and nearly crushing your skull, you've made this one relatively easy," Dirkins mused as he folded up the twin prongs of the miniature CAT scanner. "You've opened up three of the hairline cracks in your skull, and I can give you medicine to prevent clots, but you WILL have to avoid tumbling, rolling, and getting beat upside the head. And about the bruises on your neck-"

Montag cut in. "Another Elite caught me by the neck."

"Are you hiding secret ninja moves from us?"No.

"No. It's just a simple matter of me wanting to kill them more than they want to kill me. Can you give me something for the bruise?"

Dirkin's reply was drowned out by the thunderous roar of the lift, descending to their level and pushing a raging cloud of smoke and fire before it.

Montag suppressed a smile. The Covenant were on their way.

* * *

**A/N: Three months since the last update. I'm getting better! I apologize if the end of the chapter seems abrupt, but there's a LOT of talking from here on out.  
**

**Well, all else that's coming out this month is this year's Christmas oneshot, which should nestle neatly into the 'humor' category. Then the next update of Nightmare (not this month) and then another oneshot (I've got to get them all published before they overwhelm me!). Hell, I might even branch into a new universe!**

**In other news, for those of you who haven't read my profile, I've been keeping up on the Halo Animes (doubleplusungood crimethink!) and I've picked up a new copy of Halo: Evolutions (Doubleplusgood truefact). But the highlight of the month has been Avatar, which has succeeded on all levels. See my profile for the full review, but I don't think that it was possible for it to get better, except possibly by fleshing out the Colonel's character (which would have added another twenty minutes to the film).**

**Finally, we have Halo: Reach... which seems to be taking a bold new direction in the Haloverse. I'm excited, especially since S-IIIs might get mentioned...  
But seriously... what's up with the Blackhawspreys?  
**


	24. Now They're Pissed

**_Npoekt Zimá? Nada. It's new to us.  
The Siberians have nuclear physicists, war historians, and theoretical sociologists on the payroll for that project. If that tells you anything, you know more than we know. And somehow, it's supposed to prevent an all-out glassing..._**

_**Muhammed Ahbeni, Intelligence Brief (ONI Section One, OLYMPUS Liaison)**_

* * *

**1130 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Exterior Elevator Room of Beta Base  
Halo**

An unusually fleet-footed Sangheili wandered through the tarry smoke, his eyes protected by the overshields that encased him, his breaths labored. The air was foul and hot enough to broil meat, and the oily smoke all but obscured the glow of the control panel at the end of the room.

In the ages his ancestors had witnessed, a few lifespans before the first contact with the San Shay'uum, a fungus had taken hold in the humid mountain dwellings of his Docha, one that crumbled the wood-and-mortar houses and rotted the lungs of the women and still-young. The patriarch of the clan decreed that any old dwelling, with the crumbling mortar and aged wood that the blight craved, was to be burned to the ground.

Over the long seasons and years, the custom turned to the building of a hut when a male came of age, and burning it down around him when age stole his life away from his body. After all, a dwelling was shaped by the life of the owner, and loses its significance when the life moves on. For another to claim the lived-out house as his own was tantamount to wearing the tailored clothes of the dead.

The Sangheili had seen several such fires, and although the burning of the Human base brought them to mind, it stank of desecration. The Constructions of the Forerunner were as timeless as the cosmos, and to smear them with the greasy leavings of Human chemicals was to defy the unchanging nature of the Relics and the aeons they had witnessed.

The control panel before him wavered in the smoke. The warrior touched the hologram where it would call the elevator to the entrance, and then ran for the exit. Hot air rushed past him, stealing his breath away, and he felt the raging furnace below roar as the elevator sucked air into the room where the Humans had burned their aircraft.

He leaped over the ashen remains of the fallen trees that had covered the elevator entrance and he was free. The elevator had forced a substantial amount of smoke out of the elevator room, and unburned chemicals ignited upon contact with fresh air, but not enough to test his overshields.

That was good, then. The fires were running out of fuel.

* * *

**Covenant Rally Point over Beta Base, 1132 Hours.**

Vlar 'Kandonomee watched as the young Sangheili emerged from the smoke pouring out of the elevator room and made his way to a heavy cloth and a jug of lukewarm water. He would have to apply the cooling remedies himself, for it was not the Sangheili way to aid those who could help themselves.

He turned back to the remains of Krish 'Janulee, a corpse animated by by the iron will of its soul, refusing to depart to the afterlife until all debts were paid in full. Prose aside, he'd cleaned his wounds in the stream and covered the bruises with ash, but the wound in his chest had begun to seep blood again.

"All Lekgolo, Kig yar, and the prime of the Sangheili are yours," Vlar promised. "But I must have the Unggoy and others to clean the Relic."

The fallen bodyguard glared at him. "A fifth of five hundred, to delve into the foundations of Halo, resisted by a score of Humans. A score of desperate and cunning vermin who have had the time to lay their snares." Krish sneered, all the more gruesome as a dribble of blood ran out of his mouth and down one mandible. "I never knew generosity was numbered among your virtues."

"Krish, if you ask me to send all of Mortumas's legion down the elevator, you ask a Malekgolo to squeeze through a knothole. But Mortumas convinced the Prophet of the Particular Justice to bless this assault, by dint of inconvenient circumstances! The Prophet will never forget that, and all he will need is the excuse of the defiling to sully the memory of the Field Marshal."

"No," Krish asserted. "Your failing, not the Field Marshal's. You took command of his legion and then inherited it by right of kin. If it is not your new-found possession and position you seek to protect, I shall be very surprised indeed."

Vlar felt the sharp retort in his mouth die, killed by the respect he felt for his mentor's bodyguard. The two were so different in purpose, one a pupil who had been accepted under obligation, the other a bit of armor that had been forged and shaped since birth. One had assumed a thousand obligations under Mortumas's death, the other only ever had one. And once Krish 'Janulee descended into Halo, Vlar would never again see him alive. Either the humans would kill him, or he would take his own life when he was freed from duty.

"Begin your assault when you receive my confirmation," Vlar ordered. "Farewell."

Vlar 'Koalomee left the bodyguard and his assembled strike force and set out alone across the top of the former Human base. He paused as he stepped across the moat, now hardened into glass. They'd found Human bootprints across one part, which meant that the infernal murderer had not only escaped the wreck of the tank, but had fled to the safety of the rest of the Humans. Whether it had a hand in sweeping the Spirit dropships from the sky was doubtful. Even a leu'kah couldn't aspire to that level of havoc.

But from here, Vlar could survey the remains of Mortumas's legion. Wraith mortars and Ghosts were parked and powered down, with enough space between them that a lone Human could not kill two with the same explosive pack. One could not be taken by surprise if there was no place for surprise to take place.

And beyond the tarmac, a good distance from the two surviving Specters, was a Spirit dropship surrounded by guards.

* * *

**Energy Bridge Gate, 1130 Hours**

Major Sherman found Sergeant Morris by an LAAG, sighting the weapon on the elevator they'd just come down. He began to speak, but his question was drowned out by a thunderous roar from the distant elevator shaft. A sheet of smoke poured out of the elevator shaft and collected around the ceiling, to be sucked back in when the Covenant raised the elevator again.

"Clever. They're using the elevator as a diaphragm, pumping air through the Base." Morris commented. "We ain't up against complete morons."

"Hey, Sergeant, where's your sniper?"

Morris looked up from the ammo belt he was loading and said "Exactly where he wants to be, I'd imagine."

"That's supposed to be an answer?"

Morris pointed at the tower to their left. "Second floor, Dirkins just finished patching him up. You going to talk to him?"

"Personally tell him thank you, yes."

"You ever meet him?"

"Briefly, I think."

"I guess you're entitled to a fair warning, then. He's very much like an attack dog; if you feed him enough and sic him on people regularly, he's more likely to hurt the enemy than you."

"Does he have a problem with authority?"

"Not so much authority as certain authority figures. He follows orders, but prefers to go his own way if he thinks he can get away with it."

"_One of _those_." _Sherman thought darkly as he ascended the ramp of the tower. It was a curious thing, how the species that had built this place seemed inclined toward ramps and lifts, rather than stairs. Perhaps the preference had roots in their biology?

The Marine in question was sitting away from a trio of Sierra squad, but still a part of their conversation. He had the unruly look of someone who had dragged himself through a tar pit in a jungle, and then crawled around in a fireplace. And he positively reeked of burn gel.

None of the Marines saluted, as this was still a battlefield, but they all stopped talking and nodded at him.

"Lance Corporal Gui B. Montag?"

Montag looked up from his task, scraping gunk off his armor with a knife, and nodded. "In the flesh."

Sherman pushed aside the rather unusual phrase. "Montag, I'd like you to know you saved us back there in the base. If you didn't warn me about the flight of Spirits, we would have been finished off quickly. But you not only informed me, you were instrumental in taking them out, when nobody else would've come close. I don't know what you have that no one else does, but if I did, I'd get it, bottle it, and inoculate the rest of the Marines here with it."

The look on Montag's face was something Sherman lived for, the Grunt-in-the-headlights look that screamed "Are you talking to the right Marine?"

And then the look disappeared like a machine changing gears. An embarrassed grin spread across his face, and he turned to the other Marines.

"Hey, guys, could we get some private time here? The Major and I need to do some talking."

There was something strange about the charm in the Marine's voice, like a famous painting forged by a skilled, color-blind artist. The Marines seemed to sense something and stood up and trudged for the ramp. Private Da Vega lingered long enough to stare at them, before she too disappeared around the corner.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I've always been embarrassed by praise. Especially in public."

Major Sherman looked down at the silver star in his hands, realizing that fifty percent of the reasoning behind his passing on of the medal had left with the audience. It was an ugly fact, but medals served to inspire others as much as they served to honor the ones who'd earned them.

"Usually, there's paperwork and a ceremony for this, but we don't have the time," the Major said. "I earned that in action over Paris IV. I lost half my men against ten times our number in enemies, and we jumped into slipspace with a third of the decks hemorrhaging atmosphere."

Here, he paused for effect. That he'd trade that twenty-gram star for any one of the dead men went unsaid. "If I had a man in position to warn me of the boarders and strike back like you did, the catastrophe would never have happened."

Montag took the star in his hands and met the Major's eye. "You know, Napoleon used to award the medals from his own chest. He carried around a pocketful of extras, just in case."

It wasn't an attack, it wasn't a rebuke, it was simply a fact, like a landmine sticking out of the front yard. Sherman stared at it, wondering how it has come to get there in the nicely mown lawn, when Montag sniped him from the flanks, behind the neighbor's fence.

"Forgive me if I'm... forthright about general tactics and motivational techniques we've ripped out of management seminars," Montag continued, tearing Major Sherman from his world of suburban metaphors. "I was once a commissioned officer myself, or something equivalent. Rather low, in the spearheads of what I guess was equivalent to a Mobile Marine Sniping Unit. So, if there's anything I know of besides shooting and surviving, it's urban combat. Now, from what I understand, you created the queen mother of all road blocks by setting fire to the fuel stores. But then there's this failure to follow up, what with us staying around the elevator. Care to explain?"

"First of all," Sherman said. "I've sent Mobutu ahead to scout paths of withdrawal. When we do retreat, I want to have an edge over the Covenant, and not get backed into a corner. And second, I want to stay close and keep leading the Covenant by the nose. If we disappear and go to ground, the Covenant will just hunt us down with their sensors. That lets _them_ pick the battlefield."

"Never was a problem with us," Montag muttered.

"That's because you Siberians spent the whole conflict hiding under your shields."

Something passed through Montag's eye, as brief as a heartbeat, as serious as nuclear winter. Major Sherman decided to cut his losses short and leave the Marine alone with his problems.

"Sir, mind if I extrapolate from our current situation?"

"Extrapolate all you want, Marine," Sherman said, standing up and dusting imaginary dust from his armor.

"There's no way off this ringworld, is there?"

"There is. I can't talk as to the exact ship that will take us home, but the Covenant will be providing it."

"You know what the success rate of hijacking Covenant capital ships is, right?"

Sherman coldly regarded the sniper sitting in front of him. "Keep a lid on that talk."

"Sir!" Montag interjected, cutting Sherman's rebuke short. "No worries! The rest of Sierra squad is down there with Morris. _Nobody_ can hear us!"

"Montag, if you pride yourself as a soldier, you will keep that talk to yourself, or you can kiss the fighting spirit of this platoon goodbye."

Montag shifted, more out of discomfort than irritation. "First, I think 'Platoon' is a bit generous for two squads. Second, you think you know battlefield psychology? Because what I've noticed is, what people do when their backs are up against the wall depends on the leader. Some ignore it, some fight harder, some grab an assault rifle and a pack of C-12, and some... just crawl back tho their houses or workplaces and hang themselves."

Sherman leaned down, getting on eye level with Montag. "So, what did the men under your command do?"

The look in Montag's eyes didn't match his grin. "Us? We just ran out of dogs."

Major Sherman spent a full ten seconds analyzing that cryptic statement before realizing that he would never figure out what Montag was talking about, and Montag was unlikely to elucidate further.

"Fine then. What did _you_ do?"

Now it was Montag's turn for introspection. After a long pause, he answered. "I thought I fought harder, but I suppose I convinced myself I could ignore it at first. Even at the last hour, I thought we'd outlast the Covenant." His eyes flicked down to his boots while he summoned up more words. "Wishful thinking, in retrospect, but I think everyone was guilty of it."

"To answer your question, then, there's no good way off. We'll have to get to the surface and get to Alpha base, but it's a blank from there. If we want to leave, it'll be on something built by the Covenant." Nodding at the injured Marine, Sherman turned around and walked back to the ramp.

"Sir, do you have a home?"

Such an odd question, Major Sherman couldn't help but reply. "Yes, I was born on Callisto."

"None of us have homes anymore, sir. You go back home and... it's like the reverse of moving the furniture. Everything's the same, but you're different, and it isn't home anymore."

There was a long, awkward silence that separated the two, before Sherman could answer. "Why are you telling me this?"

Montag shrugged, suddenly unsure of himself. "I suppose I was scouting for you on top of the mountain, and that's still part of my job description."

"Darn right," Sherman murmured as he left.

As he got back down to ground level, the Major saw that Sergeant Morris had delegated the (wo)manning of the LAAG to the Rutterfor twins, and was lying in wait for him.

"So, what do you think of him?"

Sherman already had his answer. "He's not a dog, he's a cat. Nine lives, too proud to roll over and fetch, and you could watch him for years and not figure him out."

* * *

**Northern Tower, 1136 Hours**

Montag had flipped the HMD up and sat cross-legged, his eyelids heavy and mostly closed. He'd resumed his task of cleaning the extinguisher foam, now a black grime, from his armor. The Knife scraped it off the armor plates easily enough, and when the blade was full, he simply wiped it off on his boots.

When Sherman asked him if he'd stuck it out and kept fighting on Siberia Prime, he'd known the answer right off the bat. He'd asked himself that question before, and long since arrived at the appropriate answer.

What had given him his pause was his discovery, that Major Nathan Sherman was someone that Montag could halfway respect as a person. He was completely out of his element, with no safe place to retreat to, and yet he was calmly rallying the Marines he had left. He'd known enough to ask that one penetrating question, evaluating whether Montag had been fit for command three years ago. A better officer than Montag had been.

And then there was his outburst, that lame question he'd asked.

Floating lazily through his mind, like the embers floating through the air around him, an explanation came to him. He'd cried out for help just then, took an explanation for his crisis, encrypted it, and broadcast it for all to hear. Like the Titanic broadcasting CQD in the night.

By his foot, there was a dilapidated BPK, one of the dozens of assault rifles and submachine guns the Innies manufactured from hundred-year-old designs. Montag could reach out with the toe of his boot and nudge it, but he stared at the scuffed barrel and the grip that had been replaced with duct tape, the room silent except for the scraping sound his knife made against his armor.

Six hundred years ago, some hack writer probably thought it would be poignant and sentimental to drop a doll in the middle of a combat zone while filming a war movie, thinking that some actor playing soldier looking down and realizing he'd stepped on a girl's Talking Tina would symbolize the loss of innocence or something similarly asinine. Less imaginative writers had taken it and ran with it, and the Hollywood trope survived to this day.

Montag shifted his gaze to the hand that dangled from the trigger guard of the BPK. Once brown, but paler now that it had been shot off just forward of the wrist. It was the young, chubby hand of a five or six-year-old who should have been learning his alphabet or playing tag with his friends, not shooting at trained Marines.

The aforementioned doll would be a symbol of hope, a sign that childlike innocence could survive the slings and arrows of war. Perhaps it could, but Montag had yet to see it happen.

The true horror of innocence was the madmen out there who were perfectly willing to destroy it. Who would hand out guns and drugs to children and make child soldiers the nastiest weapon in their arsenal. Or perhaps they were fathers who gave their sons rifles and instructed them on the evils of the men and women in uniform.

Perhaps life would be better, Montag concluded, if all humanity stayed as children, and never lost the innate trust, optimism, and curiosity of the youngest years. Hell, it would have saved him a lot of shooting.

"Hiding beneath our shields..." the Shadow mused from beside Montag.

"_It's more than the UNSC's ever done!" _it shouted, the echoes oddly out of sync with the size of the room.

"It's not like we accomplished anything more than they have," Montag countered, a sentiment which he would have denounced as defeatism. Three years ago.

The Shadow spun, glared at Montag. Its face was blank beneath a nondescript outline of a helmet, clearer than the wraith that Montag had originally encountered back on the Pillar of Autumn. But the more defined it became, the harder it was for Montag to look at it.

"No..." the Shadow mused. "No, we didn't. We failed, because the UNSC abandoned us. We were their ironmongers, their cannon fodder, their factory rats, but _damn to Hell_ if we were going to be their inspiration. Damn to Hell if we were going to be the heroes."

"The same UNSC that evacuated a billion Siberians?"

"The same UNSC that let three billion Siberians die. The same UNSC that evacuated the _factory equipment_ before us," the Shadow spat. "More ships in orbit than any inner-colony engagement, and fewer troops on the ground than any inner-colony engagement!"

"I suppose you'll blame Demidov for leaching resources towards Project Iskara?"

The Shadow murmured something softly, and then answered. "Yes. The resources that went into building the exodus would have been better spent behind enemy lines, making more of Demidov's machines."

"Then you'd condemn four billion people to death."

Montag stood up and picked his way through the spent casings that littered the floor, in his imagination. There was also the pungent smell of a tire bonfire, which was easily ignored because it was all in his head.

Ahead of the curve. He at least knew what was real. Hell, did crazy people even wonder if they were going crazy?

There was something in that thought that made Montag shudder, like he'd just stepped over a land mine. What it was eluded him, but he slowed as he walked down the ramp. Insane people wouldn't wonder if they were going insane, because they assume they know what is real and what wasn't... that was what he'd gathered from a few trips to a psych ward.

Were there hallucinations and illusions that he didn't recognize as such? Did his insanity have a stronger hold on him than he thought? He'd finally found out what had bothered him, and the questions reverberated through his mind as a cold, lethargic terror welled up in his heart.

"Hey, Montag! Over here!"

Questions of whether a ruler could calibrate itself and check itself for accuracy, whether the centimeters it measured were truly centimeters, fled Montag's mind. Sierra squad, minus Sergeant Morris, was grouped together by a LAAG, with the vast caverns of the Ringworld behind them. Dirkens was holding June's camera, and Kanoff was beckoning him over to join the group photo.

Montag strode over and squatted down between Liz and Kanoff, who were attempting to keep Junior still long enough for his photo op. He forced a small smile, a mask of well-being, over his face which was a mask itself.

He blinked as the camera flashed, reminding himself it wasn't a gunflash. Ever since his first tour, he'd always got the two confused.

* * *

**Energy Bridge Gate, 1140 Hours**

"How'd the pics come out?" Dirkens asked, peeking over June's shoulder.

"Background's really fuzzy, and the cat won't look at the camera," June answered, selecting the one picture where nobody blinked. "I can touch it up back home, but I'm still disappointed."

"If you ask me," Liz said. "What's in the background is a lot more interesting than what's in the foreground."

"You've got a point there, Liz." Kanoff said, looking over the edge of the platform they were standing on. "This place is really, really... When I read 'Lord of the Rings' in high school, there was a passing mention to the "Foundations of the Earth." This place is exactly what I thought that would look like."

June stepped up beside him and started snapping 128 megapixel pictures of the cavernous expanse on all sides. Somehow, the angles and massive support structures and the blue-gray monotone gave the inside of Halo a strange aspect, like it had been built to outlast Eternity.

Kanoff steeled himself, as if preparing to ask a stupid question, and then turned to June.

"Hey, what if we set up a restaurant in here?"

The question didn't even faze June. "I think the Covenant are going to kill us, no matter how hungry they are."

"Eh, that's not what I meant. After the war's over and all, we could set up a fancy restaurant down here. Five-star places spend tens of millions on real estate, and they don't get a view half this good."

"Biggest problem I see with that," June said. "Is transportation. You'd have to be an astonishingly good cook to get people to slip all the way out here for a meal."

"Well, it'd be more of a resort, 'cause we could have a safari on the surface and some mountain trekking," Kanoff replied lamely. "But I think the whole 'Big Dumb Alien Object' would be a big draw."

"It's still a long ways to go."

Kanoff sat down and dangled his legs over the edge. Da Vega sat down beside him, and Liz came up behind them.

"Don't mind my sis. She's just snapping pictures because she thinks National Geographic will hire her."

"Why not?" Kanoff laughed. "One thousand Marines get stranded on a moon-sized artifact crafted by a previously unknown aliens, and she's the only one with a camera. Heh, you think we can put this gig to use on our resumes?"

"Yeah," Liz said. "There's a huge demand for dental surgeons with intimate knowledge of the inner sanctums of alien constructs."

Kanoff laughed. "How about you, Montag?"

Montag looked up from adjusting his left pauldron, briefly exposing his corporal's stripes. "Me? I thought I'd go into politics after this is all over, run for office or manage campaigns."

"Politics?" Kanoff asked, surprised at the answer.

"Yeah." Montag answered, sidestepping the members of Mobutu's squad who were returning from the scouting trip. "What always bothered me about political conventions is that there's never enough music, never enough marching. I always thought I could change that, see?"

It took Kanoff a few seconds to make the terrible connection between 'corporal', 'marching', and 'politics'.

"You've got a sick sense of humor, you know that?"

* * *

**Hangar Level Elevator Room, 1145 Hours**

Ten waves.

Ten lances of Kig Yar and Sangheili, and a Hunter pair. The lances weren't the traditional number, but what could easily fit within the confines of the elevator.

It was almost painful to Krish 'Janulee. Mortumas 'Kandonomee had always expounded the virtues of the tactical assault, eschewing a prolonged brawl and bloodletting of the limbs for a flawless riposte and a dagger between the ribs. And the party that set out to avenge his death would be forced to storm the humans head-on, because of circumstance.

But not without a few advantages. On the floor above, Krish had discovered a control room, one that granted mastery of the inner workings below. The room was rife with the stench of Human occupation; a true wonder that they hadn't discovered its purpose and put it to use.

The elevator rose up from the smoky depths, and Krish 'Janulee was the first aboard. That quelled some of the muttered accusations of cowardice and disloyalty, which had persisted even after Krish had made an example of one of them. The death of the Field Marshall had not been good for morale, and his order to the Sangheili to augment their combat skins with Kig-Yar shields had not helped.

A thoroughly stupid sentiment, Krish mused, that the combat skins were more worthy than the armor. Great shields had once been wielded by the ancient Sangheili warriors that were so revered, while combat skins were unknown prior to the founding of the Covenant.

The lift hit the bottom, and each of the warriors in the first wave sprung into action. Under cover of smoke, they set out and ducked behind overlapping projections that rose out of the ground around the elevator, like the reverse of petals on a flower.

Krish took a pair of tubes and split them in both hands. A holographic sheet bridged the gap, sensors analyzed all that was before him and displayed what he would see were it not for the smoke cover. The humans, their silhouettes enhanced by the device, were cloistered within two distant towers. Krish manipulated the image with his thumbs, counting his adversaries. They seemed uneasy, confused by the barricades suddenly unfolding from the ground. That was an added bonus.

The hail of bullets, primitive and deadly at the same time, came later than he expected. The smoke obscured the positions of the Covenant, but the glow of the Kig Yar shields betrayed them all the same. Thankfully, the bullets hit only the barricades, but twin thumps of rockets were cause for concern.

He glanced at the hologram in his hands, and ordered the Sangheili beside him to return fire at the rocket's origin.

The elevator finally returned to the upper levels, sucking the smoke after it. A blessing for the Sangheili, as he could see his quarry better, but the reverse was true as well. He got five shots off with his fuel rod cannon before, with a double staccato, two large bullets hit him in the dead center of the chest. He was alive by grace of the overshields he'd been granted, and Krish shoved him behind a barricade before the sniper could correct his mistake.

Krish peered around the barricade. The bullets came in from above, hence the assassin had taken refuge in the highest reaches of the towers, as it's kind was wont to do.

The lift returned with another contingent of elite covenant, carrying a Shade recovered from the Human arsenal. Three Sangheili picked it up by the legs and carried it off the elevator, setting up a pair of energy barricades in front of it.

Shrugging off a salvo of bullets, one of the Elites jumped into the gunners seat and started laying down suppressive fire. The rest of the Covenant joined in, targeting a human position with a wave of plasma for a few seconds before switching to a new target in a way that belied rhythm, and hence predictability.

A lone rocket streaked out from one of the towers, arced over the barricades, and slammed into the Shade. The Covenant focus-fired on the position where the rocket originated, and the Sangheili beside Krish even got off an answering salvo.

The elevator returned with the third wave, and Krish contacted the Sangheili up in the control room and ordered him to shorten the delays, if possible. The assault was succeeding within reason, but the Humans were still able to bite back.

* * *

**Energy Bridge Gate, 1147 Hours**

A tactical retreat was called for almost immediately after the second wave of Covenant showed up. Montag would almost have preferred to fight, as hobbling across a bridge made of energy, of all things, while the Covenant were sweeping it with their plasma weapons was not a task for the faint of heart. Even with a Jackal shield strapped to his back, the near misses were unnerving.

Even so, he ran fast enough to keep pace with the twins, who'd been the first to break cover and dash across the ethereal bridge. On the other side was a second gate of two towers, similar to the first. When Montag reached it, he skidded to a halt, dropped his backpack, and hit the ground. He let himself down gently, using his knees, elbows, and then his side to break his fall. He took a moment to let the pain in his head subside, his chastisement for the abuse he'd submitted his body to in the past day. He saw, with some chagrin, that the rest of the squad had stopped to pick up captured barricades and machine guns. Da Vega and Kanoff were even dragging an LAAG mounted on a handtruck. He probably should have grabbed something himself, but he could still help them now...

Sighting through his HMD, his Rifle properly positioned on the bipod, Montag spied an Elite that had come around its shield long enough to shoot at the retreating Marines. He adjusted his aim so that the reticule was a few centimeters above the Elite's head and pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

The Elite fell backwards, covering itself with its shield. With the bipod, the recoil was negligible and the scope jump was barely noticeable. But the Elite failed to present a second shot, and Montag was forced to look for other targets. Obligingly enough, another Elite stood and leveled a fuel rod cannon at the retreating Marines. Montag had been fooled once, but this time around, he buried a round in the gun itself.

As Morris ran by, he shouted something to Montag, probably encouragement. He continued on and helped Kanoff and Da Vega set up the LAAG.

In the distance, the elevator descended for the fourth time, and Montag caught sight of Hunters, their orange midsections beckoning to him and demanding that he take the shot before they were obscured behind the barricades. He grinned and ejected the magazine in the Rifle, selecting a fresh one with red stripes from his backpack.

Shredder bullets, which would splinter and flake upon impact, were perfect for soft targets. And while only explosive ammunition would kill every worm in the Hunter, a shredder would take out every single one in the midsection, or close enough as makes no odds.

He lay still as a corpse, reticule hovering above the Hunter's position, waiting for them to step around the barricades and present a target. Moments later, his patience was rewarded as the Hunter sidestepped to dodge a rocket.

CRACK!

The bullet was accelerated to twice the speed of sound on it's microsecond long journey down the Rifle's barrel. The discarding sabots fell away as the bullet hit the airstream, exposing the stabilizing fins that kept the bullet flying true and acted to slightly counteract the pull of gravity. Loosing little velocity to air resistance, the bullet flew downrange...

And vaporized as it struck the oversheilds covering the Hunter.

Montag's cheek twitched. Was that even_ possible? _It was the second time he'd been tricked by that today, and it wasn't good for his morale.

Behind him, Kanoff and Da Vega finally got the LAAG working and fired it at an Elite downrange. It stumbled, its shield burst, and Montag atoned for the Hunter with a gut shot.

Now it was Mobutu's squad's turn to retreat, although they'd left it too late. Five waves of Covenant were already down, and they were massing their fire through the gate, over the bridge. Montag hit two more Elites with wasteful shots that caused them to duck behind their shields, while somebody else got off another mortar-like shot with their rocket launcher. Mobutu's squad activated three stationary plasma barricades near the mouth of the gate and ran across the energy bridge to safety.

The barricades vanished under a barrage from the Hunters and the squad, not even a third of the way across, was caught in a renewed firestorm of plasma bolts. The rear guard, covering the others with Jackal shields, were the first to go. One stumbled as her shield vanished, and then caught a quintuplet of needles to the chest.

She was saved by Sergeant Mobutu, who scooped her up in a fireman's carry, propped his assault rifle against his shield and fired it one-handed while running backwards. Two more Marines got cut down before they were even halfway across the bridge, and the survival of the rest seemed doubtful.

Most of them had resigned themselves to the thought that they were going to die, but none of them had prepared themselves for the possibility that they might be levitated above the energy bridge by an unseen force field, let alone hurtled towards the Marine-held gate at a breakneck pace. Understandably, they were still disoriented when they were dumped on the ground and needed Sierra squad's help getting clear of the killing zones.

Montag turned and saw Jonesy at a holographic terminal, most of which was taken up by a bar which may or may not have been the light bridge. Apparently, he'd pushed the right button.

Jonesy followed up that success by pressing a faded 'x' superimposed behind the bar, and the bridge winked out of existence. Before Mobutu could express his gratitude to Jonesy for not pressing _that_ button first, Jonesy hit two more at each end of the bridge icon. At either end, blast doors closed, emerging out of the corners of the gates and forming a shrinking diamond through which the Covenant were still visible.

Major Sherman ordered everyone to clear out of the area. The light bridge had terminated at a landing of sorts in the gate, which was now covered on all four sides by a blast door, two towers, and a wall with Jonesy's holographic control panel inset. Two ramps led up into either tower, and the Marines chose one. Kanoff and Da Vega hefted their LAAG, and Morris grabbed the ammo canister. Montag brought up the rear of the score or so Marines charging up the ramp.

And stopped when he heard the blast doors grind to a halt and begin to open.

"They've got a terminal on their side!" Jonesy shouted from the middle of the group, remembering the panel he'd fiddled with during the calm before the storm. "Somebody lock that door down!"

Somebody ran past Montag for the panel, recessed into the wall and unfortunately exposed as it was. Montag, instinctively more cautious, activated the scope view on the Rifle and aimed it around the corner.

He was greeted with the sight of a tsunami of blue and green light rushing for the Marine's position.

"_Geh raus!"_ he screamed as he turned and dove for the ground. His dive was similar to that of Olympic swimmers: intended to minimize time airborne and maximize the distance between the starting point and endpoint. At the last second, he remembered to cover his bare neck with gloved hands.

A combined volley from over thirty Elites, Jackals, and a Hunter pair hit home with a sound like a puddle of petroleum catching fire. Hot air with the smell of burning metal rushed over the Marines, blistering skin and drying eyes. Everyone's insides tingled from long-wavelength radiation, although the smaller amount of short-wavelength was what would warrant immunosuppressant drugs now and stem-cell therapy later.

Montag scooped up the Rifle in one hand and Dirken's neck collar with the other, joining Morris and Mobutu in shouting for everyone to get up and get going. He glanced back at the panel and saw that ti was gone, and the wall it once hovered in front of was glowing white hot and sagging outwards.

The Marines continued their charge up the ramp, which turned to the left and opened up onto a courtyard half a kilometer across. Walls around the courtyard reached all the way to a ceiling with radially symmetric rafters, and two concentric rings of pillars surrounded some sort of well in the middle.

"What is this place?" Liz asked, speaking for everyone present. It was like trying to read a mall map in Swahili, except you didn't even have international symbols to give you hints as to the location of the bathrooms. First, the elevator room with the projections that opened up out of the floor once the shooting began. Then there was the energy bridge, flanked on both sides by identical pairs of gates, and a control panel that was hidden from the vantage of one gate, while the corresponding control panel for the other gate was out in the open. And now a giant enclosed courtyard with gates leading to three other directions.

Montag frowned. Did the gates lead somewhere else, or did they lead from elsewhere to here?

"Alright, everybody hump it to the pillars and leapfrog, double-time!" Major Sherman shouted. "Morris, take your squad and circle around the pillars. Hit them in the flanks when they show up!"

Montag ran along with the rest and noticed that there were twenty-two Marines, when twenty-three had crossed the bridge. Then he remembered the soldier who had stepped out to keep the blast doors from closing. There'd been nothing left of him, when even nukes would etch your shadow into the wall behind you.

Sierra squad reached the pillars and began leapfrogging around them, covering the door while the Marines ran for the exit across the room. They'd gotten halfway before the Covenant tripped the last two Argemones the Marines had set up around the ramp, alerting them to the Covenant presence.

Montag immediately stopped behind one of the pillars, propped the Rifle on it's bipod, and loaded a clip of shredder ammunition. As he expected, Morris yelled for the squad to take cover.

The first Elite to appear on the ramp had abandoned its shield in favor of a second plasma rifle. Before it could even assess the situation, it was greeted with a hail of fire from a dozen assault rifles. IT ducked back down, and more Covenant flooded out, Jackals boldly covering the Elites.

Montag's range finder indicated that he was shooting from a distance of one hundred fifty meters. Risks were justified, and he took shots he would normally eschew. With that reasoning, he set his sights upon a Jackal's arm, exposed as it fired through the notch in its shield. The arm was shredded lengthwise from wrist to elbow by the bullet, and the Jackal was now only good as a mobile shield. Hopefully, it would be too busy going into shock to do even that.

Someone in the other squad got their jackhammer going, launching a rocket in a parabolic arc that took it through the door the Covenant were coming through and down the ramp, where it collided with an Elite and decimated an entire lance.

Montag grinned. They'd taken casualties, and the tables wouldn't stay turned forever, but if the Marines could keep inflicting more damage than they received, and stretched out how far the Covenant reinforcements had to come-

The tides of war changed direction once again, this time in the form of an interloper. From pillar to pillar, walls of energy sprung into life, hashed with static before settling into a glassy translucence. As soon as they appeared, the sounds of pitched battle died away completely, even though plasma and bullets continued to hammer away at the energy barriers.

Montag stood and looked around, cold shivers running down his spine as he soaked in the oppressive silence. Two concentric rings of barricades separated him from Sierra squad and them from Mobutu's squad, who were trapped in the center ring.

"Go around! Go to the door on the far side!"

Montag almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Morris shouting over the radio. He wasn't alone after all.

Morris was looking through the barriers, trying to communicate with the rest of the squad who were, in between laying down suppressive fire, trying to radio Morris with an equal amount of success. What Morris said didn't get through, but the Marines nodded at his hand signals and began to retreat.

"Sir, how do we get out of here?"

Morris gave Montag an 'oh, crap' look, whether it was from just gaining a full grasp of their situation or because he was locked in the same soundproof cloister as Montag was unclear.

Morris's reply was delayed by a silent flash of light, as a column of blue fire erupted from the well in the center of the room and exited out an aperture in the ceiling directly overhead. In unison with the pillar of light, the ground fell out from beneath them.

"What is this?" Morris screamed. "A damn videogame?"

The middle ring and the center fell together for ten meters, after which the ring ground to a halt and the center continued its descent along the shaft of light.

Montag and Morris walked to the inner ring of barriers, and peeked through them. Far down, illuminated by the shaft of light, the Marines were scurrying around, perhaps even panicking.

"Covenant probably think we'll be easier to exterminate, divided up like that."

Morris nodded. "Wherever they're going, I hope there's an exit door."

Off to their left, a yellow iridescence drew their eyes to a pair of Jackals entering the middle ring. A second twin-flash revealed a second duo, crowding the enclave.

"Sir, if the aliens that built this place are half as hellbent on radial symmetry as I think they are, there's another one of those enclaves near the door you sent the squad to."

Morris nodded. "Right. We retreat there, hole up, and hope Jonesy can work another miracle."

"Wait," Montag interjected. He activated the scope view on his Rifle and zoomed in on something above the enclave. The scope revealed an Elite in what might have been gray armor, with burn marks evident on its limbs.

"Hey, Morris?" Montag asked, sending the sergeant a video feed. "We have a problem here. That Elite there might have a grudge against me."

"What?" Morris asked, squinting into his HMD.

"Eh, I shot him in the chest up on the surface, and he might have been close enough to remember what I look like."

"You shot that thing, and it survived?"

"I know. And now it's back for more. You'd think it would've gone off and bought a lottery ticket or something."

By now, a total of six Jackals were on the same level as Montag and Morris. They split up into even groups and trekked around the ring in opposite directions.

"Sir, they're going around both ends. If we run for the enclave, they'll catch us in a pincer movement and pick us off easy."

Morris nodded as he evaluated the situation. "They split us up so we'd be easier to handle. Time to return the favor."

"Just so long as you're willing to run distraction, sir."

* * *

**Southern Section of Middle Ring, 1205 Hours**

Morris ducked behind yet another pillar, firing his assault rifle in short, controlled bursts. A trio of plasma bolts whizzed by, and he chucked a grenade around the pillar. Not a live grenade, as the pin was still in it, but the Jackals wouldn't know that, or be able to pull the pin and throw it back.

The alien trio in question reacted perfectly, bunching together so their shields overlapped, one facing the grenade and the other two facing the lone Marine with the assault rifle.

The one covering the grenade was surprised to see a second Marine step out of nowhere and pluck the plasma pistol out of its hand.

Montag grabbed both notches of the shield and twisted. An uncomfortable position, to be sure, but he had the advantage of torque and surprise. When the notches where almost vertical, Montag felt the Jackal's elbow dislocate, and he shoved the alien back against its partners.

Montag kicked the shield of the second Jackal, grabbed the edge, and pulled. When the Jackal itself was exposed, he fired a trio of shots into its chest with the stolen plasma pistol.

The third Jackal barely had time to get its pistol clear of the first Jackal when Montag grabbed its shield by both notches. Instead of twisting, however, he manhandled the Jackal until it and its shield were between Montag and Morris. It barely had time to panic before Morris gunned it down.

"Is shooting them not enough?" the sergeant asked dryly as Montag deftly relieved the corpses of their shield gauntlets and weapons.

"The problem with guns," Montag countered casually. "Is that you don't get to savor all the little emotions that come up. That moment of dawning comprehension when they realize how screwed they are? It's one of the reasons I get out of bed in the morning."

The verbal fencing match was shelved for later as the two finished looting the Jackals and ran for the enclave, where Sierra squad could hopefully help them help them help them all.

Unfortunately, they'd have to take care of the guard first.

Both sides of the equation had been expecting each other. The Jackals opened fire with needlers and plasma rifles, while Montag had two captured plasma pistols charged up. Taking cover behind Morris's shield, Montag sighted down the plasma pistol on his right hand, fired, and then sighted and fired the one in his left hand.

Both lightning balls tracked their respective targets and flew past a similarly overcharged bolt flying towards the Marines.

Montag dropped the plasma pistols and yanked the Handgun out of its holster. As the bolt splashed against Morris's shield, Montag sighted on one of the naked Jackals and fired three rounds, scoring two chest shots before he was forced to duck behind a pillar with Morris.

Morris, in the thick of the fray, had caught a duo of needles in the chest. Just as fast as any equally desperate man, he'd scooped his helmet up and crammed it down over his face, while covering his neck with his left arm.

The needles detonated, and Morris yelped in pain as tiny glass shrapnel was embedded in his upper forearm, gouging bottlecap-sized holes in his breastplate.

Montag chucked a live grenade around the corner, waited for the thump, and then came around the pillar with the Handgun up. There were no survivors to be made casualties, and he holstered his weapon.

Now that the Covenant Peril was temporarily averted, Montag waved at the Marines standing on the platform above. They waved back, but he couldn't hear what they were shouting.

"Barriers block sound and radio," Morris said, looting needler ammunition off the dead bodies. "If you've got another way to contact them, now's the time to do it.

Montag nodded and picked up a broken arm, where Jackal and shield had been separated. Using the bloody end as a brush, he spelled out an "L", a "U", a "K", and a "4". After a quick shake to get a better grip on the limb, he spelled out the last "CTRL", a "P", "A", an "N", and an "L".

A quick look at Sierra squad revealed that at least one person understood his shorthand, and was beckoning him and Morris into the enclave, while everyone else fought off a wave of nausea.

Carrying the gauntlets and weapons taken off the Jackals, Montag and Morris stepped into the enclosure. "Do you think Jonesy knows w-"

Montag's question was cut short as a haze of yellow pain overwhelmed his sense of sight, hearing, feel, and taste. His world was turned outside-in, wrung out, and run through the dryer for good measure. When he was finally dropped onto the ground, his shaky knees were barely able to hold him.

Teleportation, while convenient, appeared to be neither wholesome nor pleasant.

Montag backed off the plate and leaned against the energy barrier, enjoying the soothing sensation of feeling returning to his digits. He hung back and let Morris take charge.

Below, he noticed that two Jackals had trailed him and Morris on the middle ring, and were now milling about inside the teleportation enclave with nothing better to do than wait.

"Hey!" he yelled, waving to Jonesy at the control panel. "Jackals in the enclave. Beam 'em up, Scotty!"

Jonesy understood what he meant when Montag pulled out the Handgun, and started working his magic. Two very surprised Jackals materialized on the plate in front of Jonesy, and quickly became two dead Jackals as Montag executed them from behind with headshots.

"What does it say about my character," Sergeant Morris asked. "That I find him less appalling as time goes by?"

"With all due respect, sir," Da Vega answered. "Nothing good."

* * *

**Treeline Downspin of Beta Base, 1212 Hours**

The question ate away at Vlar 'Koalomee all the way down the mountainside, and he expected it to trouble him for days.

Was he to settle his late Mentor's accounts and fulfill his duties as he had been taught, or as his Mentor would have gone about it?

The seeds of his problem lay in his apprenticeship, and the politics therein. Traditionally, the most respected officers of one Docha accepted pupils of other Dochas as a sign of good faith on political agreements between clans. The young ones selected to be tutored by outsiders were often the brightest, and of good lineage. As they grew older, they would be able to command respect in their role as liaison between the two clans, the wandering son of one and the adopted son of another. If matters between the clans became irreconcilable, and the conflicts that preceded the exchange of students often did, each clan would forfeit a young male of great potential, and the apprentices would forfeit their lives.

It was a system more effective than most, practiced by more tribes than not, and Mortumas had rejected it. The idea that he might lead an adolescent into adulthood and then be forced to kill him had never sat well with the Mentor, and he sought alternatives.

Vlar 'Koalomee was the alternative, taken from a smaller clan because he was intelligent and he threatened no uneasy political ramifications. Unfortunately, Mortumas's power was such that he was obligated to accept two more students, one from within the Docha Kandonom, one from without.

There'd been respect in the relationship, perhaps more than usual. Vlar had applied himself in earnest, learning the intricacies of maneuver and command while Mortumas had learned the art of teaching. Now, with the Field Marshal dead, Vlar's fate and even his status in Docha Kandonom were uncertain. But the last work of a master, unfinished and mundane though it may be, was always valued beyond the others. Vlar hoped for at least that much.

The grounded Spirit he trekked to, lost in his reverie, was guarded in the front by two Major Domos, who executed their Praetorian duties with a grim note of satisfaction.

Vlar ignored the cold aura of resentment as he passed by them, and approached the Sangheili imprisoned beneath the tines. Felna Danatee, the only other living student of Mortumas, had been brought here with his hands bound into fists, as per Vlar's orders. Welts across his skin indicated that the warriors who had brought him here had not felt inclined to civility.

With a metal knife, Vlar cut away the cloth binding Felna's fists, and then commanded it to stant.

"Remove your armor," Vlar hissed contemptuously. When the prisoner hesitated, Vlar continued. "Remove your armor, or have it stripped off of you."

After a moments hesitation, Felna complied, starting with his helmet and then unbuckling his breastplate. Armor plate and underskin fell to the ground with melancholy notes of finality. When Felna stood completely naked, Vlar spoke a benediction he'd heard long ago, although the words served equally well as a curse.

"May your fame precede you wherever you journey, that all who look upon you know of your deeds and treat you in accordance with their merit. May all who look upon your face see the strength of your spirit embodied in it, and know the temper of your heart."

Heartbeats before he finished, Vlar' hand lashed out, and the knife cut into the skin behind the mandibles, sliding under the skull and up the other side, severing the nerves and muscles needed for fine motor control of the mandibles. Lost in pain, Felna's legs gave out, and his fall was only stopped when Vlar grabbed him by the neck and held him upright. The knife went to work again, plunshing into the lower two biceps of the prisoner, crippling him for life.

Vlar turned away as the disgrace fell to the ground and addressed the guards. "See to it that it doesn't bleed to death, and set it to work cleaning up the bodies of the fallen. From now, it is to be nameless, even to the lowest ranks of the Unggoy, and its existence is never to be directly acknowledged by any warrior, armorer, or ration-master."

The Sangheili nodded, and with insolent slowness advanced upon the disgrace.

Vlar watched them. He'd been respected before today, and commanded even more respect now that he had singlehandedly brought the assault to a close. But it wasn't enough, not for the position he occupied, a problem he would have to correct soon, or never at all.

While sheathing the knife, he paused. Sheathing a blade that had not drawn blood was improper, but to sheath it with the blood of the disgrace tainting the metal was unthinkable. Blade in hand, troubled by duty, Vlar set off toward the sound of a nearby stream.

* * *

**Containment Doorway, 1218 Hours**

The hallway that led away from the fateful courtyard with its insane floor plan and nonsensical energy barriers was cut short by a gleaming blast door with a diagonal seam. The metal had originally been duller, Jonesy explained, but the 500-gram C-12 charges he'd planted while waiting for Montag and Morris to reach the teleporter had done a good job of polishing the metal. And not much else. A five kilogram charge, he continued, might produce better results, but the hallway they were pinned down in wasn't big enough to pull that off safely.

"Did you try using the control panel by the teleporter?" Morris asked.

"First thing I thought of," Jonesy replied. "No dice. Whatever tells the door to lock or unlock, it isn't here."

Closer to the mouth of the hallway, Montag and the twins exchanged glances. Wherever the controls were, that's probable where the Covenant had set up shop.

A stream of needles flitted out of a needler and homed in on Montag, only to detonate harmlessly against he wall net to him. Montag decided that the needles probably couldn't detect a dozen centimeters of alien alloy between them and his center of mass, and set his sights upon the offending Jackal.

CRACK!

The Jackal lost its good arm, and its convulsions were lost as it was eclipsed by the bulk of a Hunter. It was hunched over in perfect form, with one of the barrier pillars providing partial cover as it charged up its arm cannon.

That was Jonesy's time to shine. Having already filled a canteen with C-12 foam and pressed a detonator into the neck, he threw it as hard as he could, sliding it across the floor like an Olympic curler. As soon as his hands were free, he pulled a remote out of his pocket, twisted a key, and pushed the big red button.

The liter-canteen exploded no more than a meter to the Hunter's right. Its helmet and spines were torn off by the blast wave, its shield was lifted over the head, and the torso was pushed over to the side like a Gymnastics instructor doing stretches. Montag took advantage of the Hunter's predicament to put a fletchette round through the midsection.

The other Hunter, spearheading a group coming around the other side, roared and charged forth to avenge its fallen brother. A quick look at Jonesy revealed that he did not, in fact, have another C-12 IED.

Montag cursed. "You don't go up against _one_ Hunter," he shouted. "Without a plan to deal with the _other!"_

The Hunter in question was running with its head low and its arm cannon tucked behind the shield, providing no easy target. Theoretically, it would be easy shooting once it closed in, but it would be moving too fast to get anything more than a lucky shot, and the shield would be certain death in the narrow hallway.

Montag abandoned the Rifle on the ground and reached into his backpack. A flare had worked well enough for distraction back in the badlands, though the right side of Montag's face burned at the memory.

No flares, but there was the neat little bit of loot hanging from the pack. Hopefully, if he distracted the Hunter long enough with the stolen weapon, somebody else would put it down. His fingers closed around the grip, shifted the hilt until it was comfortable, and squeezed. The energy blades burst forth, and Montag waved it to get the Hunter's attention. It worked; the beast zeroed in on him and drew its shield closer to its body in preparation for the almighty backhand.

The plan failed, however, as the rest of the Marines and a good number of the Covenant stopped shooting and stared at him, shocked at his sudden ownership of an alien device that was probably worth more to to the UNSC than the combined annual income of Sierra Squad and their immediate family.

With his options run dry and no time to dodge, Montag lunged and slashed at the shield, not even bothering to hope for success.

The sword flared as it bit through the Covenant alloy. The shield itself fell to the ground with a resounding clang that plate metal only makes when nobody is expecting it to.

The incongruity of the situation surprised Montag and even gave pause to the Hunter itself, long enough for Kanoff to bag his second Hunter of the day. As the roar of the shotgun was replaced by the prolonged thump of the Hunter falling to the ground, Morris looked at Montag and shouted "Where the Hell did you get that?"

"Long story, sir!"

"Give it to Jonesy and we'll cut our way through the door! Everyone else is on guard duty!"

Montag threw the deactivated hilt to Jonesy and crouched behind the Hunter. Everyone except Kanoff and Da Vega lined up against the walls of the hallway and laid down suppressive fire with as many Covenant weapons as they had. Kanoff and Da Vega crouched over the Hunter, protected from stray plasma bolts by their captured shields.

Montag was interrupted by one of the Hunter eels. It advanced on him with awkward flopping motions, gnashing teeth that looked like they were built to scour metal. He grabbed it by the end that didn't have teeth and flipped it over, readying himself to crush the midsection when a plasma grenade missed the Rifle's scope by centimeters and came to a stop half a meter from his face.

Montag switched tactics, whipping the eel around until it smacked into the hissing grenade. He twisted his arm again and sent the eel, firmly attached to the grenade, flying.

Thankful that the Covenant had yet to shorten the grenade fuses after twenty-five years of war, he simply gave Morris the thumbs up when he shouted for everyone to keep the Covenant out of grenade range.

That was exactly what Kanoff and Da Vega did. Crushing a good number of eels in the process, they finally freed the Hunter's arm cannon. Kanoff picked up the front end while Da Vega stuck her arm in it and probed around for something to pull or push. A burst of green light erupted out the front end, and the recoil shoved the weapon into her lap. The first shot went high, but shots two and three didn't, scattering the few Covenant who didn't have time to run for cover. As they swiveled the cannon around to deal with the other side, Jonesy yelled that he was through.

The hole was trapezoidal, at waist height, and still glowing at the edges when Dirkins dove through it. Kanoff and Da Vega were the next to go through, with the cannon in tow, while the remaining Marines provided covering fire.

"June, you're next!"

Montag nudged Jonesy while the engineer waited for his plasma pistol to cool down. "Hey, can I have my sword back?"

Jonesy nodded, pulled the hilt from his tool belt and handed it over.

"Liz, you're up!"

As Liz retreated into the hallway and crawled through the hole, the Covenant started breaking out of cover, somehow realizing that the gig was up. Montag's cheek twitched as he noticed that his Jackal shield was becoming more transparent as more needles bounced off and more plasma bolts rippled across the surface.

"Jonesy, go!"

That left Morris and Montag, guarding opposite sides of the hallway. Now the Covenant were positively streaming out of cover, that Montag could see. Presumably, that's what they were doing on the side Morris was guarding. The sergeant was mostly hidden behind the shield he'd taken, unleashing a stream of blood and needles into the Covenant warriors. When he was out, he yelled for Montag to go after he fumbled a fresh clip into the weapon.

Montag gave a half salute as he stood from his crouching position and dashed for the blast door. The droning of the needler was muffled as he dove through the hole, shield deactivated and Rifle in his hands, pointed forward. He landed awkwardly on his side, twisting to prevent the Rifle from hitting the ground and rolling to make room for Morris. He stopped when the small of his back made contact with the blunt edge of the plug Jonesy had cut out of the door.

For two chilling seconds, Morris failed to appear. At long last, the sergeant dove through the hole, new scorch marks visible on his armor and a dozen needles sticking out his back. He landed on his side, arms outstretched and words on the tip of his tongue.

"Oh, sch-" Montag breathed.

Before he could finish the understatement, the needles detonated. The armor cracked and shattered, the skin and muscle was shredded and blown clear, and the Marines were given a clear view of the cracked ribs and pulverized spine.

Liz reacted faster than everyone else, running forward and tilting Morris's head up. She was the first one to look into his eyes, already glazing over from shock.

"Morris! _Morris!"_

* * *

**A/N: Killing off a main character gets depressing.  
I've learned much from this chapter. Mostly, that you can't use the word apprentice without coming across as ripping off George Lucas, and you can't refer to 'masks of well-being' without coming across as emo. Anyhow, I hope this chapter wasn't too long, either in writing or in reading.**

**In other news, the National Guardsman I mentioned ten chapters back, a certain "Corporal Morris", has held the rank of Sergeant for at least a year now. He's been in the newspaper recently for a rather interesting event, which should be available in my profile sometime soon.**

**In other news, Frankie recently confirmed that they're talking with Eric Nylund about a potential sequel to Ghosts of Onyx, the writing and publishing of which would be enough to make me forgive Frankie for "The Package". But these rumors that Stephen Spielburg has acquired the rights to produce a Ghost in the Shell movie...  
Frankly, I'm trembling in my boots.  
**


	25. Injuries To Go

**_Casualty reports are in, and they're lies. Siberia Prime puts the civilian casualties in the first week at two million. ONI's got dead proof of twice that number. Satellite imagery shows fuel dumps and what look like food reserves on fire. They're bargaining factory equipment for food supply. The minute the Governor and his staff set foot off of the planet, there's a mob ready to lynch them for war crimes and human rights abuses.  
_**

**_It's sad. Not them, us. The UNSC is worn down from this war, worn down to the point where we can only dismiss the people who haven't given up._**

**_Excerpt from the diary of Captain Mark Ramirez, FLEETCOM._**

* * *

**1230 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
North Balcony, Transit Column Spinward of Containment Elevator.  
Halo**

"Comrades in arms," Private Dirkins began, addressing the three women and four men gathered around the body of Sergeant Morris. "We are gathered here today to pay our final respects to our commanding officer, who has departed to a well-earned R&R in the hereafter. He was a man who lead from the front, who had been getting the short end of the stick ever since we crashed on Halo. Some of his trials were of his own making, many were what Fate put in his way, but his response to each obstacle was to buckle down, try harder, and promise to bring us back home."

Dirkins saluted, followed by each of the other Marines. "You deserved more than that, Morris, and in death you deserve more than we can give you now. With great sorrow, we commit your body to the... depths."

Montag and Da Vega stepped forward and grabbed Morris's corpse by the shoulders and boots. Dirkins helped pick him up, doubtful about the shear strength of a spineless midsection. As he and the others carried the body to the edge of the structure they had paused on, he was glad that the unshredded back muscles were strong enough to keep the internal organs in place.

"We, uh... commit him on three, ready?" Da Vega asked. "One... Two... Three!"

Morris, his assault rifle cradled in his arms and standing at attention for the last time, fell out of sight, bound for the deepest parts of Halo.

"Wish we could've found a better way," Da Vega remarked.

"Whole point is to keep him away from the Grunts and Jackals," Montag replied. "Back on Siberia Prime, we'd rig up incinerators out of KO'd Wraiths."

The Marines walked away morosely, silently stepping over alternating puddles and trails of blood. The balcony they had held a funeral upon was the furthermost end of a hallway, which joined with another hallway in a T-junction. That hallway, tall and broad with columns on each wall for support, terminated in a security door with a hole cut through it.

"Mobutu claimed there were elevators, somewhere around here. We really ought to try and rejoin with the other Marines." June said, nodding in the direction generally opposite of where they'd come from.

"Yeah, but I'd feel a lot safer if we cut the Covenant up some, slow them down. It'd be easy in a bottleneck like this," Kanoff said, drawing mutters of assent from Liz, Da Vega, and Dirkins.

"Forgive me if I'm dead wrong," Montag replied. "But sticking around with itchy trigger fingers was what caused this debacle in the first place."

"Yeah, and in case you don't remember, the floorplan was stacked against us in the first place. We never had decent cover going in," Liz retorted. "Now the boot's on the other foot; anything walking down that hallway is going to have zilch for cover, and we can take cover easy."

June stepped forward when Montag failed to follow up, staring off into the distance. "Yeah, like back at the light bridge? Face it, when that blast door opens, they're going to just volley-fire and etch our shadows into the wall behind us!"

"Genug!" Montag shouted. "Liz, Dirkins, you're on recon duty. Find the elevators, tell us how to get to them, and look for controls. Everyone else, set up for ambush."

There was an awkward moment, before everyone reluctantly nodded in assent. As they left for their respective jobs, Montag mulled over Kanoff's observation, one that had eluded him before.

The barriers around the elevator, impervious to bullets or plasma. The teleportation booths that allowed entrance and egress into the inner ring of the elevator room, but with the controls on the outside. The blast doors that had been unaffected by focused C-12 charges. The lack of cover granted to anything that exited the elevator room.

All centered on the elevator. What was down there?

* * *

**Elevator Room, 1233 Hours**

Upon the arrival of the Keepers, the Elites under Krish 'Janulee had bowed in penitence, kneeling down on the hard floor with their heads down, their necks exposed, and their palms upward. It was a position of complete trust or complete submission, to bare your most vulnerable points like that. Krish joined them for a moment, but was the first to rise. The creations of the Forerunner were to be held in reverence, yes, but also to be feared.

The Keepers, for their part, granted the assembled Covenant only scant attention before continuing on, erasing scorch marks on the walls and undoing the damage wrought by the battle.

As the Sangheili stood at attention once again, Krish took stock of his remaining resources. With the Malekgolo pair dead, the result of bad luck and the beasts' single-minded dedication, he had lost what armor he had to begin with. The Kig-Yar accounting for more than half his forces had last a third of their number. The Sangheili, better off than the others, had taken few casualties.

Now, with the Unggoy bringing fresh guns, Krish contacted the Sangheili back in the control station.

"The Humans trapped in the pit have not gone far, and have no other egress," came the reply. "The other group has stopped as well. Expect them to bite back."

"Very well," Krish ordered. "Open the door on my command."

While they waited for the Unngoy to finish waddling around the energy barriers to their position, a Sangheili sidled up with a Malekgolo cannon draped across one shoulder.

"A most uncomfortable position, to be sure."

"They have the cover, we have but a narrow pass. And they possess a weapon to exploit it," Krish admitted.

The warrior shrugged and lowered the salvaged weapon. "True, perhaps, but it is too much for their frail bodies. It took two humans to merely carry it. Aiming it against recoil would be beyond them."

Krish considered finding a wiser, warier Sangheili to take the fuel rod cannon, but there was no time.

"They're resourceful," He admonished. "If you don't have a clear shot, fire for effect and drive them into cover."

He stepped away, sorting the Covenant into ranks with short orders. As the Unggoy detail arrived with the weapons, he gazed at the Keepers swarming over the door, piously going about their humble work.

* * *

**Spinward Hallway, 1233 Hours**

"What the Hell are those?"

Montag, lying down beside Kanoff, beamed a live image from his scope to everyone's HMD. The reticule of the Rifle hovered over the flying widgets, which looked like anemic plasma pistols. They were swarming the plug Jonesy had cut from the blast door. The slab of inert metal, two since the blast door had been double-layered, sparkled with flashes of bright orange light. Montag shifted the gaze of the Rifle to the door, where more widgets were hovering and more orange flashes lined the hole.

"I think they're repairing the blast door," Montag said.

Kanoff looked up from his binoculars. "Should we take them out? One plasma grenade might do the trick."

"Yeah, and piss off the security system?" June said. "I can guarantee you, if the self-repair is working, the security bots are."

"Those might even be the aliens that built this place." Montag said.

"What, machines?"

"Yeah. Maybe they went HAL and killed off their creators before building this place. Or maybe the aliens shed their biological bodies for machines that wouldn't age."

"Or maybe," Da Vega deadpanned. "They're the equivalent of little vacuum bots."

The widgets continued their work as the door opened, and ceased only when the Jackals charged through. A volley of four overcharged bolts from Kanoff and Da Vega greeted them. The first ranks dropped behind the ranks with intact shields, except for the ones shot by Montag. They merely dropped.

A return salvo of bolts depleted the shields that Kanoff and Da Vega were using, and they retreated out of the hallway.

Da Vega activated a second Jackal shield and, with June, covered Jonesy as he swung the Hunter arm-cannon out into the open. Whereas it took four people to hold and fire it, Jonesy had run a cable from the winch on his multi-tool up over a rafter-like structure over the T-junction and secured it to the gun. Instead of lifting it, all he had to do was aim, press the slab that acted as a trigger, and think happy thoughts.

"Hey, _xenos,_" Da Vega shouted as she grabbed the line to steady the cannon. "_HADOKEN!"_

The blast drowned out her arcane war cry. A long stream of green light shone forth, and shields collapsed and bodies dematerialized in it's wake. Jonesy swept the beam to the left, and then down along the floor to catch the Covenant that had dropped to the ground. Before he could finish the circuit, the beam died and the cannon powered down, advertising the fact that it was empty.

"Alright," Montag called out as he brought out the Handgun. "Mop up and fall back!"

_BOOM! BOOM!_

An Elite rising to its knees stopped.

_BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!_

A Jackal spun around, spouting blood from its shoulder and chest.

As Montag set his sights upon another Elite, a black blur raced past the doorway, vaulted and rolled over the bodies to avoid the Marine's gunfire. As the Elite rolled to it's feet, Montag recognized the fire-blacked armor and the seeping chest wound. His second realization was that the Elite had deftly plucked a Hunter's arm-cannon out of the bodies, and now had it leveled at the Marines.

"Fall back!" he shouted, drowning out the monosyllabic invectives from the other Marines. He ducked to the side, and a shot that would have grazed the top of his abdomen passed by harmlessly, cut through the line suspending the cannon, and detonated against the back wall.

A second round hit the floor behind the cannon. June was the closest, and the blast wave threw her against the far wall, collapsing the shield she was using.

Kanoff and Jonesy picked themselves off the floor and ran to her side. Upon seeing her comatose, they picked her up and carried her down the hall leading to the elevators.

Montag waved Da Vega off. "Geh mit sie! Bring up the rear!"

"What about you?"

"I'm going the other way, split them up."

With that vaguely defined goal, Montag dashed across the hallway, waving the captured sword in one hand. He ducked under a salvo of plasma and ran in the opposite direction that the rest of the Marines went.

If the Ringworld Engineers were so obsessed with symmetry, then both ways led to the elevators.

* * *

**Spinward Hallway, 1235 Hours**

Krish 'Janulee stood at a crossroads. To his left, the bulk of the Humans had fled. To the right, only the Murderer had gone that way.

Breathing in deeply and lowering the cannon so as to grant his heart rest, he signaled to the rest of the Covenant to halt.

"To the left. Follow the Humans, cut them down, and cut off the Murderer's escape."

"You will take on the Murderer by yourself?" one of the Sangheili asked aloud. "Perhaps Fate will smile upon you this time."

Krish lashed out and seized the offending warrior by the left mandible pair. He bent them back beyond their stretching point and forcing the head back. The Sangheili toppled over backward, and Krish stomped his hoof down on the fallen warrior's chest. He dropped the cannon and picked up the offender's plasma rifle in one smooth movement.

"I was locked in a burning Spectre," Krish snarled. "Before being forced to fight unarmed. You were bested by a cripple with a weapon in your hand! The legion Mortumas 'Kandonomee forged has no need of you."

The Sangheili bristled at the charge and lifted his chin, defiantly exposing his neck. Five shots to the head cracked the shield and killed him.

Krish dismissively kicked the body aside and clipped the plasma rifle to his side. Painfully, he leaned down and picked up the cannon.

"Go," he ordered the others. "Before more time is wasted."

The Sangheili nodded respectfully and charged down the hall to the left, with the Jackals keeping pace. Krish hefted the cannon, primed it, and loped down the hall to the left.

The hall ended in a balcony, without a wall or a rail, open to the vast expanse of Halo. It continued around the corner and out of sight, an obvious point for an ambush.

Krish took the corner sliding, crouched in a defensive position that let him turn freely to his left. The Murderer was leaning against a wall where the balcony turned inward, aiming its rifle. The first round merely caught Krish off-balance, but wasn't enough to break his overshields. A second round caught him over the chest as he charged forward, aiming the awkward arm-cannon at the human.

A peculiar feeling danced across his right hoof. Childhood training let him immediately identify it as a trip-line. Krish kicked that hoof back and let himself fall forward, a response ground into him at the earliest age. The cannon flew out of his hands, governed by the laws of inertia.

Beneath him, two of the Human's ugly fruit-shaped flares rolled to a stop, joined at the stem by a length of fine cord. Krish grabbed both of them and kept the handles on the stem depressed. He lurched to his feet and snapped the cord in two.

The Human's jaw was taught, his facial muscle contracted, and his mouth was slightly agape; a common expression of surprise amongst the lower animals. The danger it was in must have occurred to it, and the Murderer bolted through a doorway.

Krish grabbed one of the dangling halves of cord and pulled, unleashing the handle. He realized, moments later, that the flares might have been set to detonate immediately, but they didn't. He threw the flare through the doorway, bouncing it off the jam and deep into the room.

As he cleared the doorway, he saw that the Murderer had avoided the blast with a stolen Kig-Yar gauntlet. The room was split by a narrow chasm, with two small energy bridges crossing it. The human was fleeing to the nearest bridge, firing wildly with a sidearm.

Krish 'Janulee pulled the cord free of the second flare and threw it at the Human's feet. It bounced off the right boot and detonated a few strides away from the target, knocking the Murderer on its back.

The bodyguard of the late Mortumas 'Kandonomee nonchalantly drew his plasma rifle and fired a few shots as he drew near, weakening the enemy's shield. When he was not ten paces away, the Human screamed, a sound that made him pause.

It sounded like an animal.

* * *

**Transit Column, 1236 Hours**

Perhaps not the most disconcerting sound he'd heard that day, but close, was the rough noise of duct tape tearing loose of the ground as the Elite tripped over the snare. It was a crude trap he'd set up in twenty seconds to tear the shields off any Covenant that would follow him. Such a simple, obvious trap required him to stay behind and run distraction to draw attention away from it, but the total failure was unthinkable.

Now, as the Elite was rolling to its feet and the fact that it had overshields was established, it was a perfect time to turn the other cheek and run.

As he dashed through the doorway and slung the Rifle across his back, he cursed himself. Thirty seconds more, which he'd certainly had, would've made the trap foolproof. Hindsight was a mean-spirited teacher, he decided as he activated the Jackal shield on his left arm.

He heard a clattering off to his right and spun around, bringing the shield between him and the grenade. It went off, and starbursts of static played across the energy barrier where shrapnel impacted. Now that he was facing the doorway he'd come through, Montag ripped out the Handgun with his free arm and began shooting in the general direction of the Elite.

The alien threw the second grenade straight at Montag, and he kicked the offending ordinance away.

He didn't get the shield around in time.

A distant thunderclap sounded, hand in hand with a bolt from heaven striking his face. All the heat and power went through a point just above and behind the outer corner of his right eye. The thunder, more felt than heard, passed through his whole body, knocking him on his back.

The pain faded out, too much to register at first. Montag instinctively reached up and felt the wound, and the floodgates burst open. All the pain he'd ever felt was bottled up, distilled, and poured upon that wound. It was accompanied by a deeper, subtler sensation, beneath the skin and around the eye. A feeling like grinding two massive blocks of concrete rubble against each other.

Montag's jaw opened up so much, it hurt. Just barely wide enough to let out his scream, a bloodcurdling shriek that reverberated off the shield he was covered with.

As air fled his body, rational thought fled his mind.

He tried to roll to his feet, but the half-melted snow was soaking into his clothes, slowing him down. He couldn't hear the Hunter; if it was going to finish him off, he'd feel the footsteps first. Where were those Reavers?

Plasma splashed across the shield, drawing his attention to the Elite slowly advancing upon him. He remembered the past thirty seconds both way: getting a face full of shrapnel from a grenade thrown by the Elite, and getting swatted down when scrabbling across a Hunter's frosty back with a chemical flare clenched in his teeth, determined to die not yet not yet not yet not-

"No' yet, noyet, nyet..." Montag hissed. He twisted around and pushed himself to his knees. It was still hard to think, like sifting sand through a sieve, but the duality of existence faded away, and he was coming back to reality. He could clearly see the Elite, standing amidst the wreckage of a SAM battery and its crew.

"Nyet nyet nyet _nyet!_" Montag screamed. He hobbled forward, stumbling as his right knee gave out but persevering by using the Jackal shield as a sort of cane.

Step two and three were somewhat easier, due to inertia, and he was at a jogging rate by step four. Step five and six brought a resurgence of pain that he fought against as he picked up speed, but by step seven, he'd closed into melee range of the Elite.

The Elite reached out with its left arm and swung the plasma rifle with the other, perhaps intending to grab the shield, twist Montag's arm out of the socket, and follow up with shots to his back.

That wasn't the game Montag was playing.

Already, he had the plasma sword in his hand. He ignited it at the last moment, and the tines pierced the shield and cut through the Elite's elbow.

Before the severed arm and the rifle it had a death grip upon could hit the floor, Montag swung at the other arm. When the fight began, there had been a shield acting as a barrier between Montag and the Elite, but not anymore. Montag was completely unfettered and the Elite had nothing to protect himself with.

Montag lurched out of the spray of blood jetting from the Elite's severed stumps, fighting for balance. He swung his left fist at the Elite's throat. It wasn't a strong punch, mostly because the Elite's neck was above Montag's head, but it didn't have to be. It was enough to cut the Elite's scream short and make it bow its head.

As it choked, Montag regained his balance and switched off the energy sword. Swinging the hilt over his head, he brought it down on the Elite's helmet like a sledgehammer.

The hilt rang like a bell as it flew out of his hand.

* * *

_The jump was involuntary._

_The sound of the friction-stir welder on line five starting up sounded like a Wraith firing. A four-year tour had drilled the reflex into Montag: Look for the blob, jump for cover. It wasn't something he could turn off._

_And now his frayed nerves had been set on edge by the sound of welder number four's bobbin hitting the concrete floor. A work of engineering beauty, an investment of ten man-hours, and he'd dropped it. Thrice-inspected by Quality Assurance and Compliance, to ensure that it conformed to Specification, and he'd dropped it because he was a nerveless wreck who shouldn't be working in a factory where banging, grinding, and riveting drove him closer to an apoplexy each-_

"_Chort Poberi!" Montag cursed, cutting the train of thought short. He scooped up the bobbin, a segmented cylinder of hardened alloy and turned it over to look for damage, praying for none._

* * *

Montag shook his hand, an unintelligible string of invectives hissing through his teeth. The Elite fell over backwards, its helmet askew. Montag viciously kicked the Elite's head, lost his balance, and fell on the animal. He slipped off on the pool of blood coating both of them, pulled the Knife out, and stabbed the Elite in the thick muscle of the shoulder. He used the embedded Knife as a handhold to pull himself onto the struggling Elite, twisting the handle as he fought for a grip.

* * *

_A shadow fell across Montag. A man, shorter than the ex-Marine he was standing over, looked at the bobbin in Montag's hand with the patented disinterest of the model Consolidated Industries foreman._

"_Is there a problem?" he shouted, emphasizing his words with sign language. A finger pointed at the bobbin in Montag's hands, a thumbs down, and a shrug to indicate a question._

"_No," Montag shouted back, barely loud enough to be heard through fabrikmusik and earplugs. "The ultrasound scan checks out alright, wear is within tolerance." He pointed at the portable ultrasound imager, at the bobbin, rubbed one hand over the other, stuck both forefingers out and brought them together, and then gave a thumbs up. For the first time that day, he was proud of himself, proud that he was picking up on the language so fast._

_Foreman Ivan Zabrysk Leynn looked down, nudging the divot left in the concrete by the bobbin with a steel-toed boot. Montag braced himself for a thorough ball-breaking, but Leynn merely reached back behind the driveshaft coverlet and retrieved a can of beer from its hiding spot._

"_Drinking on the job is fine," Lynn shouted. "But damn to Hell if you're drunk."_

"_I'm fine, sir."_

_The foreman took that statement with a grain of salt. He set the can down and held up four fingers to indicate the time until the welder went back online. As he left, he stopped to glare at the control box to the welding machine, at the safety locks Montag had threaded through the breakers but hadn't fastened. He shook his head, wondered why his daughter was letting a basket-case ex-Marine shack up with her, and continued on his way to line three._

* * *

Montag swung one leg over the Elite so he could straddle it, and pulled the Knife out of the wound. He slashed at the head and left deep cuts in the mandibles and lip.

The Elite screamed and tried to roll over, but couldn't, not with only its legs. Montag retaliated, steadying himself with the left hand anchored on the Elite's shoulder wound, the right hand working as swiftly as a jackhammer. Stab the Knife into the throat, twist, pull it loose, repeat. It was hardly a full five seconds before something analogous to the windpipe caved in, though it wasn't the end of the violence.

Montag pulled the Knife free, flipped it around in his hand, and rammed it through the roof of the Elite's mouth, twisting it back and forth.

* * *

_A little bit of counter-twisting, some jiggling with the Allen driver, and the set screw finally went in straight._

_Montag watched the cleaning oil ooze out of the screw hole, trickling to a stop as the gauge on the screwdriver approached 10 newton-meters._

_He'd taken this job because he could see the war as one machine, and manufacturing fuel tanks for the Navy was a part of that machine, no less important than fighting on the front lines. Every time he saw a bottle of Zavod Kantoreka, every time he had nightmares about marines dying, it became harder to think that way._

_It was, Montag reflected as he slid the cover back on and screwed it down, time he admitted that he wasn't ready for civilian life yet. He could drive in a convoy, but the smallest traffic on the Interchange was enough to drive him insane. He'd been able to fall asleep to the sound of gunfire and artillery, but the sound of Vera breathing across the room kept him up all hours of the night._

_He could pack up what sanity he had left and re-enlist, go back to what he was good at. Defective product: Outside of Specification, unfit for Civilian Use. Return to manufacturer._

* * *

Like breaking the surface of the ocean after days of drowning, Montag returned to sanity, or at least awareness.  
He pulled the Knife out of the Elite's mouth, a hole that now extended all the way down to the base of its throat. He could feel his heart beat, could hear the _fabrikmusic, _the sounds of a healthy factory washing over him. The smell of HE, Elite blood, and Human blood mixed in with the air, drowning out the smell of hot metal, ozone, and cleaning oil. Which was imaginary?  
Before Montag could puzzle it out, separate the imaginary from the real with logic, he felt a break in the _fabrikmusik. _Pain lanced across the right side of his face, from the shrapnel wound that had clearly fractured something. That had to be taken care of first.

Sand and a sieve. Thought was fleeting, focusing on the here and now took effort. The floor beneath him was metal of alien origin, not burnished concrete in a factory back home. The sound and the smell and the taste of home was imaginary, the pain wasn't, he reminded himself again and again as his life slowly drained out of a hole behind his right eye.

Moving like a marionette with an inexperienced, twitchy puppetmaster, he unclipped his backpack and rolled off of it, onto his left side. Blood poured over his cheek and nose, letting him know that his was bleeding more profusely than head wounds usually do. He grabbed his canteen and poured the water on the cut. He could barely feel the water, which wasn't a good sign.

Moving one arm at a time, as if they were lead weights he was unfamiliar with, he dug out his medical kit. A foil packet the size of a teabag was torn open, and a flexible woven-nylon cloth was pulled out, unfolded, and pressed over the wound. Coagulant powder went to work cutting off the blood flow, while adhesives stuck to the skin. Enough to hold things together until he could get to Dirkins.

Montag's vision got blurrier as he applied polypseudomorphine patches to his forehead, due more to blood lose, trauma, and the adrenaline rush than to the pseudormorphine. On the other hand, this was his third dose in... thirty minutes? An hour?

Like a check list, he ran through what he'd just done. Survived the Elite, halted the blood flow, killed the pain. He thought for a moment, and added more to the list.

Get to Sierra Squad, meet up with Dirkins.

Get back in fighting condition.

Get to the Pillar of Autumn.

Everything was blurry now, not just his vision. Thinking was like an analogy he was too tired to think of. Slow, it took all of his strength to concentrate. His right hand rummaged through the medical kit until something caught his eye.

With clumsy fingers, he picked up a hypodermic needle labeled for hospital use. The artery in his neck was hard to find, but he slowly triangulated it from his jaw and his year, on the side that wasn't covered in clot-cloth.

He saw something at the edge of his vision, a dark mass hovering over the Elite. The shadow looked up from its inspection and gave Montag the thumbs-up.

Montag grinned spitefully as he jabbed the needle into his neck and tapped the tip. The pressure wave from the tap broke a seal in the needle, and compressed argon pushed a measured dose of Coretin into his body.

The stuff took a minute to work, but it was a miracle when it did. The confusion lifted like a morning fog, and the fuzziness from the pseudomorphine and the injuries vanished. Thoughts began to flow more evenly, one clearly following the other. Montag did a quick math problem, sought the prime factor of 140, and got five, seven, two, and two. No pauses, no lost train of thought.

He stood, and a shower of silver needles gushed up his right leg and exploded in his knee, but he was still alert enough to keep his balance. The numbness in his forehead and shoulder hadn't left, and the rest of his body ached, but he could feel everything. The uneven, half-melted soles of his boots, the weight of his armor, the blood trickling down his arms.

Montag raised one hand and stared at the rivulets of purple blood running off the waterproof material of his gloves. He recalled a hospital nurse explaining what the Ceretin did, how it cleared up the drug users who were brought in. Did it improve coordination, or did it only seem like so?

Wordlessly, he flipped the medical kit closed, stuck it in his backpack, and shouldered it. He stood up and walked unsteadily to the Rifle. A quick glance at the scope confirmed that it was undamaged by the blast or the subsequent fall. Not far away was the hilt to the energy sword, undamaged by its use as a hammer-head.

As he left, Montag surveyed the room. The Shadow was gone, and there were no phantom bodies or blast marks, no smell of oil or napalm or cooked flesh. All was as it should be.

Montag didn't even bother suppressing the 'isn't life grand?' smile, enjoying sanity while he still had it.

* * *

**First Gondola on the right, 1345 Hours**

"Liz, we have no options," Dirkens shouted over her pleading. "Your sister was thrown against her shield, and the gauntlet snapped her ulna at the halfway point. Her elbow," he continued, pointing at the crushed mass halfway up June's arm. "Was forced right through the shield before it could collapse. You wouldn't get a finer mess if her arm was crushed in a vise!"

Liz nodded weakly, tears running down her face. She'd gone hysterical when she saw her sister, and she looked like she would've gouged out Dirkins' eyes when he told her what he needed to do. Fortunately, she was listening to reason, for now. No telling how she would be when the cutting started.

"If I were in a critical ward with an autodoc and a neurosurgeon, we could save her arm. I'm not, so we're going to have to amputate."

June, lying between them and out cold, would have it the easiest. The sedative patches on her neck would keep her out cold until Dirkins was through. She didn't have to deal with the doubts and second-guessing her sister or her doctor did, she would just wake up with most of her left arm missing. And learn to deal with it.

"I'm going to move the tourniquet, and when I start cutting, I need you to hold her other hand. You don't have to look.

After she nodded and closed her eyes, he picked up a scalpel and touched it to the crook of June's arm. He ran the steps through his head, how he would have to cut the skin, close off the arteries and veins, and snip the nerves with a special tool that would allow for prosthetics to be grafted on later. Before closing back up, he would clean the wound, remove broken shards of bone, and seal the end of the humerus.

He alternated between the plastic scalpel and the electrocauterizer built into the back of the blade, exposing blood vessels and wrinkling his nose at the smell of cooked flesh.

He was half a minute into the job when Kanoff called out from the upper part of the elevator. Only then did Dirkins notice the absence of plasma fire. Presumably, their Covenant pursuers had been killed or driven off.

"Here comes Montag!" he shouted.

Dirkins cursed, remembering how it had gone the past three or four times Montag had shown up after combat. "Am I going to have to glue his head back together again?"

"Holy crap," came the reply, with the sort of tone reserved for when someone walks into a hospital with a railroad spike driven through his jaw, and Dirkins saw why.

Montag was covered from head to toe in Elite blood. The coverage ran from splatters and smears into a full coat of purple on the hands and chest. Evidently, he'd taken quite a beating in return, because blood was trickling down his neck from beneath a clot-cloth over his right temple.

"What the hell," Da Vega was the first to ask. "happened to you?"

"I had a fight with an Elite," Montag replied as he stepped onto the elevator and made a beeline for Dirkins. "I won."

"Sure you did."

Dirkins was far too professional to shout Montag down, even though he'd warned Montag thrice about his head and he was already partway through one surgical procedure he couldn't abort. Instead he focused on capping the ends of June's arteries and asking questions.

"So, what happened?"

Montag evidently saw the dire straits Dirkins was in and answered the questions before the medic could ask them.

"The Elite fragged me with one of my own grenades. I think I've got shrapnel embedded right here," he said, pointing at a spot beneath the clot-cloth, behind his right eye. "I am otherwise uninjured. I took two painkiller patches and I've had two doses of PPM in the past hour. I've also had some of this. Try not to overdose me."

He dropped a hospital-grade hypodermic needle by his side and picked the stun gun out of Dirkins' medical bag. He'd pressed the gun against his carotid artery and pulled the trigger before anyone could stop him.

Montag dropped the gun and leaned back against the wall. He pretended to drift off, ignoring the rest of the questions the squad were raising. Best to answer no questions than answer some and leave the rest hanging. The sooner he went under the knife, the better.

Except the drug from the stun gun didn't seem to be working. His eyes were closed, he needed to pass out, but he was still thinking a mile a minute. Maybe the... stuff was combat... the... someth-

* * *

Kanoff turned the needle over in his hands, trying to make sense of it.

"Coretin," he asked. "What's that?"

Dirkins glanced up from his job and looked at the needle. "Not military, I know that. That's a hypo you'd find in a civilian hospital."

"Maybe he raided the pharmacy after he broke out of the psycho ward," Da Vega remarked dryly.

"Cut the chatter," Dirkins ordered. He tossed his medical kit at Kanoff. "Da Vega, I want you to clean the blood off his face and look for puncture wounds on the rest of his body. Kanoff, you use the Porta-CAT. I want a decent image of his skull, and anything else Da Vega finds."

"Wait, how do I-"

Dirkins cursed in frustration again. "Here, pinch this," he ordered Liz. "Alright, just press the 'on' button there, push that switch for recording, and aim the two handsets at his head. I want a 360 degree scan, keep them separated by ninety."

The whole elevator jerked. The ramp leading to the platform the Marines had come through retracted, and the elevator began to move.

Horizontally.

Da Vega looked up from removing Montag's pauldron and shouted into her radio. "Jonesy, what's happening?"

"I just started it up, there's no level selection or anything!"

Da Vega jumped to her feet and raced for the ramp that lead to the upper level of the 'elevator', where Jonesy was.

"Rose, wait!" Kanoff cried. "I need help here!"

Da Vega paused halfway up the ramp, her face taut with fear. "We need to regroup with Mobutu's squad, Jerry. We can't survive out here."

Dirkins barely batted an eye as he started bonding June's exposed tendons to her humerus. "Liz, help Kanoff, I'm almost done here."

Kanoff cursed the controls of the Porta-CAT and tried a third scan of Montag's head. On the bad side, his patient wasn't resisting. "So, this is going to be the fourth time you patch him up, right? Last night, after the first wave today, and then when his nose started bleeding?"

"Fifth time," Dirkins said. "He dislocated his arm back aboard the Pillar, remember?"

"Ah, right," Kanoff said. "Do you think he's a masochist?"

"Whatever he is, I wish he'd stop." Dirkins said. "Liz, if you're through, scrounge up some canteens."

* * *

_The Urb Hog raced down the seven-lane thoroughfare, leaving wisps of ash curling and dancing in its wake. Ash from a nuclear fire, carried over the Lublanska district and the rest of Metrograd by high winds._

_After the Cruiser had been nuked from the sky and crashed into the southern edge of the district like, for lack of a better description, a giant sperm whale, a secondary campaign was kicked into action. Tungsten carbide rods dropped from orbit had crunched through previously undamaged armor and compromised the reactor. A good portion of the citizenry had been indignant about that, but the Brass explained that unless the ship's reactor was taken offline, there was every chance that the surviving crew would turn it into an impromptu multi-megaton nuclear warhead. Given the choice between a new Chernobyl and a new Tunguska Event, people inevitably accepted the decision._

_In the meantime, the ash would be breathed by humans and aliens alike, another factor in the battle to outlast the other._

_Petrol, sitting at the wheel, was glancing around the cabin of the Urb Hog more than was absolutely necessary. Doubtless the same things were running through his head._

"_Petrol, relax. Positive pressure means you're not breathing ash yet."_

"_Yet," the driver replied sullenly. He glanced at the 12.7mm that had replaced the lower half of Montag's side of the windshield. "That gasket won't last longer than first two minutes of combat."_

_The uparmor Urb Hog package replaced the window with two smaller windshields, joined by a flat plate of armor down the center. For this recon mission, Montag had opted for a 'street sweeper', a pintle-mounted HMG. Normally, it was proof only against bullets, shrapnel, and Molotov cocktails that didn't break open, but the armorer had found a block of rubber and brought the weapon up to specification with the rest of the NBC system._

"_I've breathed fallout before, Petrol. It's nothing. Worse that can happen is you have to go to pretty female doctor, turn your head and cough. What budding soldier like you wants, right?"_

_Petrol had too much sense to ask if that was what had gotten Montag kicked out of his girlfriend's apartment. The scuttlebutt back at the base was consistent enough to be true, and it wasn't something you asked a friend, especially not a friend who was a superior officer._

"_We're coming up on roundabout. ORACLE is on."_

_Montag ordered the gunman to warm up the M68, but the gunner beat him to it. Cunningly concealed behind a bus were two Shade turrets. Shield generators flipped on, rolling over the bus and giving turrets a clean field of fire._

_The gunner in back buried a round in the energy broadcaster behind them, halving their firepower. Another group further down the road made their presence known, splashing the windshield and coming perilously close to Montag's gun as he returned fire._

"_Right!" Montag hissed. The Oracle was identifying turrets left and right. In the roundabout ahead, turrets, generators, Wraiths, and even some sort of needle AAA were highlighted._

_Petrol obeyed the order, twisting the wheel to the right and barreling down the entrance to a parking garage. They passed parked Shadows on both sides, the turrets to which were mostly unmanned, thankfully. Private Rozi Spasskaya, manning the gun in back, kept firing as fast as the gun could cycle, prioritizing guns but taking the opportunity to blast the cockpits as well._

_After a quarter of a minute of desperate maneuvers, the lone Urb Hog came to a pair of two-lane ramps, one leading up, the other leading down. Coming up was a Ghost, plasma cannons blazing._

_Petrol spun the wheel, and the Hog raced into the up ramp. The gunner in back barely got off a crippling shot before permacrete walls cut them off._

_The upper level was rather less cluttered. Many of the cars had been shoved into piles and crushed to make room for a line of Shades along the edge of the garage. Guarding those were a pair of Hunters, who were considerably faster on the uptake than the Shade gunners. Their first volley hit the Urb Hog broadside, spinning it around. The stray shot of the two slagged an otherwise salvageable pile of Mercedes._

_The return shot from the Gauss cannon went wide and even Montag's stream of hot lead was diverted into a less-salvageable Henschel._

_Petrol gunned the engines, and the Hog lurched for a skybridge that lead from the garage to the mall across the street. Rozi got off a straight shot, cracking the breastplate of one of the Hunters and turning the worms inside into salsa._

_The answering shot nearly pushed the Urb Hog off the skybridge and blew out the windowpanes a quarter of the way down the bridge. Under Petrol's guidance, the jeep soldiered on, but there was a worrisome rumble coming from the rear of the vehicle._

_Montag glanced in the mirror and saw smoke pouring out the rear passenger tire. There was a clunk, and the rumbling ceased. Petrol stopped his hoarse stream of one-word invectives and glanced at the dashboard display._

"_Rear right engine seized from last hit. Clutch disengaged automatically, still steers."_

_He drove fairly well for someone who spent his post-primary school years scraping car windows for cash._

"_Good," Montag replied. "Find window in here that looks out onto roundabout, and we're done."_

_The department store they'd entered was a street-clothing store, looted yesterday by Government Requisition Teams. Looking across the empty displays, it was easy to find the walls with the floor to ceiling triple-paned paned acrylic windows. Slightly harder to see were the trio of Shade turrets, already a sight that was getting old._

_Montag fired at the middle one, assuming that the gunner in back would automatically go for one of the more obvious shades on the side. The gunner, probably working on a similar assumption, took the central Shade out milliseconds after Montag began his volley. Montag cursed, switched to the far Shade, and opened fire._

_By this time, the Urb Hog had picked up considerably speed, and was careening toward the rightmost shade. At the last moment, mindful of the two-story drop at the other side of the window, Petrol hit the brakes._

_When the Urb Hog collided with the Shade, Montag got a good look at the Grunt's face, how its beady eyes were squinting through it's scrunched-up, meaty cheeks. Ass far as he could tell, that was an expression of extreme shock._

_The Shade came to an abrupt stop when two of the tripod legs contacted the window. The Urb Hog was hoisted by the third leg and smashed into the ball turret. The Grunt's eyes were almost closed when the ball turret flew off the tripod, splattered the Grunt against the window, rebounded onto the Hog's hood, cracked the driver's windshield, and rolled onto the floor._

_Montag was the first to speak. "Well, that didn't go as planned."_

"_You know, I heard that these windows could stop a moving car. Never gave it much thought, though," Petrol said. He tried to put the Hog into reverse and back off the tripod, to no avail. With only one working tire contacting the ground, they were going to have trouble._

"_I don't expect ORACLE can sight through that big bloodstain, can it?"_

_Montag pulled a reel of obstacle-clearance thermite cord out from under the dash. "Keep the engine prepped, I'm going to clear out the tripod."_

"_Hold it__, sir," Rozi radioed a split second before she fired the gauss cannon at the window. It was shatterproof plastic, so it only cracked as the bullet gouged a crater 25 millimeter wide at the base, and the blast wave squeegeed off most of the Grunt blood. The vibrating window took care of the rest, showering the Urb Hog with a fine rain of blue._

_ORACLE blinked, and begun highlighting all of the Covenant emplacements, equipment, and vehicles outside, correlating their positions with Transit maps._

_Slowly, most of the turrets in the roundabout turned to face the window where the gauss shot had come from._

_Montag pursed his lips, about to give the order to abandon the Hog. ORACLE had begun uploading the data into Demidov's network only three seconds ago, not nearly long enough for the artillery gals to respond with high-explosive airmail. It came as a surprise, then, when a series of explosions blew the needler turret of its a-grav cushion and destroyed a cluster of charging crates._

_A wolfpack of Reavers flitted into the Roundabout, missiles hissing out from hooded launchers and 50mm autocannons mopping up the survivors. In seconds, the Superintendent, Demidov, had taken the raw data from ORACLE and fed it to the Reavers. Each missile and rocket was placed with unerring accuracy, and even after the explosions and smoke obscured the Covenant positions, the machines didn't stop. Secondary positions, where the Covenant infantry may have survived or fled, were calculated and targeted._

_When the second salvo was finished, the gunships rose and parted, vanishing in three different directions._

_Montag thumbed the radio. "This is Scout-Sniper Gui Montag. Kelva roundabout is clear. Cancel artillery and get Infantry down here."_

_Montag set the handset down and picked up the coil of thermite-carbon cord. "I don't really mind getting my final furlough postponed," he said. "But I wish Air Cav would tell me before they do it."_

_He stepped out of the Warthog, and Petrol was already there, MA5B at the ready._

"_First combat, you did well," Montag remarked as he wound a loop of cord around a leg of the tripod. "It's rarely this slapstick, so I hope you enjoyed it."_

"_Yeah," Petrol muttered, staring out the window at the ruined roundabout. "Hey, Montag. If we even survive this war, is there going to be anything left?"_

_Montag turned on his haunches, taking in the same scene Petrol was looking at. The proud skyscrapers were withered, broken, like old trees decades after they die. Mummified remains drying and crumbling under the weight of time and ice, littering the streets, walks, and rails below with dessicated skin of permacrete. It was a Necropolis spawned by malice and rugged determination, the antithesis to a Volk that clung to order and feared entropy._

_It was a perfect reflection of what happened to the Siberians. Stake everything on winning, follow leaders who promise the world in exchange for your soul, and lose everything._

_It was culturecide, and Montag's bloody handprints were all over it._

_Montag was about to reply, speak about soulless survivors in hopeless refugee camps back on Earth and Reach, when he realized that something was wrong. Some blows to the head had got his mind stuck on replay, but it wasn't perfect. When he'd done this recon run with Petrol and Rozi, the main invasion was only 54 hours old. The city should still be intact._

_As he put the connections together, Montag remembered something he'd heard about lucid dreams: when you realize its a dream, it only get's weirder._

_And it did._

_The right side of his face, previously aching with a dull throb, burst into flames. He opened his mouth to scream, but didn't. Demidov's Rats, the smart little mines with the razor claws that scurried and cut up dead bodies, dug into his burning flesh as his mouth opened wider and wider._

* * *

**Gondola, 1414 Hours**

Dirkins dug the largest fragment out of Montag's head, turning it over with a pair of tweezers.

"Oh, man. See the blue stuff beneath the ceramic bone?" he asked Liz. "That's medical-grade UHMW plastic lining. If that weren't there, this bit of metal would've skewered his eyeball.

Liz, partway through cleaning shrapnel punctures on Montag's arm, glanced over at the area Dirkins was working on. The skin was cut back, cleaned, and sprayed with coagulant, exposing a patch of ceramic as big as the circle made by touching thumb to forefinger.

"How much of his head is ceramic?"

Dirkins traced out the skin from the right cheekbone to the ear, up to the crown, and then back down to the nose. "Couple of molars, too. It's a miracle they kept him alive after that. A Hunter beat him down, left him for dead, and his whole face was frostbitten when they found him. And after that, nothing. No medical operations until he got hit by friendly fire back in February."

Liz touched a rough patch of scar tissue on Montag's bare arm, over the bicep. It looked like it had been caused by something hot, and hadn't been treated too carefully. Through the scar tissue, black lines of a tattoo were barely visible.

"Was he in the ODST program back then?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"It wasn't friendly fire."

Across the Gondola, the other three healthy Marines of Sierra Squad stood watch over June, who was drifting in and out of consciousness. Jonesy was counting notches on the Rifle while chatting with Kanoff and Da Vega.

"So, then she threw herself out the door of the train. She was so hyped up on Neuroin, she probably didn't realize the door was closed. And when the cops had to clean up, they just walked down the tunnel and hosed down a 20-meter section of wall."

June stirred, mumbled something, and then went back to sleeping. Da Vega went back to her story.

"So, out of eight people in that car, I was the lone survivor. And I figured while I was in the police station, I should probably be using a bigger handgun if someone was shooting at me, so here I am. Hauling an AR around for a job."

"Nice story," Kanoff said, happy to have the full version. "But I've got an even scarier one."

Da Vega raised an eyebrow, unsure if she should be offended.

Kanoff pointed at Da Vega and June. "Private First Class."

He pointed at himself, Jonesy, Liz, and Dirkins. "Private."

Finally, he pointed at Montag. "Lance Corporal Gui Montag."

He waited for that to sink in, and said "Chain of Command."

"Oh, shit."

* * *

_Montag lay facedown, afraid to turn over._

_The pain, after a brief psychedelic interlude, had faded away. He felt a dull probing at the corner of his eye, like how a dentist pick feels after a mouthful of painkiller._

_The ground beneath him was not polished linoleum, as it had been in the mall. It was, as near as he could tell, firmly packed, but not rocky. It wasn't moist or dusty, or even sandy. Closest Montag could think of was the sort of earth you found after a wildfire, with a hint of ash._

_The mind was a powerful tool, and Montag was more imaginative than most. Still, lucid dreams weren't common for him, and he found it disturbing that the realization he was in a dream did not put his imaginations in order, like it could when he was awake. Perhaps._

_The only thing he could do was get up and see if this was going to be a pleasant dream or a nightmare. As he got to his feet, he realized he wasn't wearing armor or ammo, just his fatigues._

_A nightmare, then._

_Montag fought off the feelings of vulnerability and nakedness, and strode over to the wall a few meters away. It stretched as far as he could see through the fog in either direction, and ended just above his reach, a featureless expanse of sterile white brick._

_He cursed. This place._

_Montag couldn't always remember his dreams, but the locations were usually the same. His grandfather's apartment, the public school, the highway a few blocks from where he'd grown up, the live fire obstacle course at boot camp... all had been visited often in his dreams._

_So, this wasn't the first time he'd been by here._

_He rested a hand on the white bricks and walked along the wall._

_For the first time in years, he was back to officially ordering soldiers around. That hadn't worked out so well the last time because... he could motivate and lead, but he'd expected a certain ferocity, an ability to set aside morality and passion and do a job. Compassion, empathy, and mercy were alright, but best left behind the front lines._

_Because that's what they were fighting to protect._

"_To do only what's necessary," he said aloud._

_He and Barnes had made that promise over a bottle of beer not long after the San Lorenze incident, which others had later presented as a massacre. Do what has to be done, no more. And don't enjoy it, don't treat it as anything other than a necessary evil._

_Live by that principle, make it the guiding point in your life for years, and you come to appreciate the dual meaning. Doing anything more than what was necessary, and it was a crime. Doing anything less was dereliction of duty._

_And after the end, you finally realize how shallow of an ideal it is. Strung out behind you, like banners and flags, were a trail of retrospective justifications, Nuremburg defenses, and nightmares. And you keep going, out of inertia and a fear to face your possible pasts._

_Montag stopped and turned around. He had trouble focusing on the distance, but he could almost imagine that the wall was circular. And he was inside._

_The problem with the mantra of necessity, he decided, was the lack of a standard. Without an outside code of morals, one is left to rationalize and judge one's actions from moment to moment, and Montag had gotten pretty good at rationalizing._

_He couldn't even decide if he was following that ideal or not, anymore. Perhaps he did, but only when necessary._

_Montag laughed, hard. He couldn't not laugh at how ridiculous his crystal-clear image of his predicament was, and how murky his knowledge of himself was. If you do not know your enemy, and you do not know yourself, you will be imperiled in every battle. At his current pace, Montag was fighting to lose._

_When he stopped laughing, he could hear voices outside the wall. Kanoff, Da Vega, and Liz, mostly. In his dream, was he hearing them from the real world, or were they part of the dream? In the real world, were they of the living, or were they projections of his own fractured view of reality?_

_The sound of Montag punching the wall rang hollow through the fog. He couldn't think like that, it was fuel for his paranoia. He had to accept that he had to take some things on faith, he couldn't get hung up on the desire to prove the existence of all he encountered. He wouldn't get past "I think. Ergo, I am."_

_Kanoff. Da Vega. Jonesy. Liz. June. Dirkins. They were real. They had to be real. The phantom bodies, the Shadow... that was in his head. They went away when he closed his eyes and stopped believing in them._

_For the longest time, Montag lay where he'd fallen down laughing, staring at the cracks in the wall, caused by a weak foundation._

* * *

**Gondola, 1510 Hours**

Jonesy had a pen out, slowly moving the tip from notch to notch carved in the stock of Montag's Rifle.

"I count 300, and I'm not even halfway through the first row," he said to whoever was listening. Nobody in particular, as they were all listening to the argument.

"I know Morris trusted Montag, maybe," Da Vega asserted. "But he trusted Montag with a long leash, not to lead us after his death."

"You're giving him too much credit," Dirkins countered. "He's a shady asshole, but you've got no reason to think he's a complete monster."

"He was hit by friendly fire in the ODSTs, and they burned his tattoo off," Liz pointed out. "That and the San Lorenze involvement kinda hints that he's not a good guy."

"Come on. For all you know, he was trying to stop the ODSTs from slaughtering a busload of civvies. I see where you're coming from, I don't like him a whole lot either, but what are you going to do?" Dirkins asked. "Drop him over the edge?"

"It works," Da Vega said. "He's almost dead now, and he won't wake up before he hits bottom."

"Hey, that's taking it a little far," Jonesy said. "Look at him. Does he really look like he deserves that?"

"He's probably capable of doing it to us if he thinks he has to. And Hell, Hitler probably looked like an angel when he slept."

"He's probably not Hitler," Dirkins noted wryly.

"He's definitely not an angel."

"Hey, guys?" Kanoff spoke up for once. "Montag makes me uneasy too, but I'm going to veto dropping him off the side. Last think I want is to have to explain the giant bloodsplatter to my future clients."

Everyone smiled, thankful to Kanoff for injecting a little humor into the situation.

Da Vega, sitting up on the low walls of the Gondola, lightened up. "Sorry if I'm being a hardliner here, 'kay? We know that Gui has a metric crapload of experience, but he's definitely missing some other qualities."

"It just seems impossible that he's got the highest rank of all of us. Didn't we have any Corporals or anything?" Liz asked.

"Yeah. Remember Heywood? Bought the farm back when we were looting the Autumn? We lost Krystler in the same attack."

"Yeah..." Liz mused, somewhat mollified for having forgotten so easily. "It seems like years ago."

Dirkins laughed and shook his head. "Oh, man, that's the sort of thing they say on television when they're referring to the past seasons. Corny, but you're right. I remember returning to the Autumn like I remember graduating from school, or boot camp."

"So, what would you do if you were a full Corporal?" Jonesy asked.

"Depends on where the Gondola stops," Da Vega said. "If we're in radio range of Alpha Base, we call in for a Pelican. If not, we trek until we are. The odds of running into survivors are pretty much nil, so we can't count on it."

"Alright, board's ready," Kanoff called from below her. She slid off the wall and landed right beside him, deftly avoiding the large grid he'd drawn with a grease pencil. He'd torn up several MRE packages and sorted them into two piles of different colors.

"How do you play?"

Kanoff smiled. "Rules are simple, mastery is hard. We take turns placing pieces, and the goal is to capture territory and surround each other, okay? Since you're new at this, I'll give you a 16-count handicap."

Dirkins rolled over from his reclined position to check on June. She was still out of it, but color had returned to her skin, courtesy of half a liter of synthetic blood he'd pumped into her. Beside June, her sister was massaging her good arm, staring at nothing.

"Hey, don't worry. Once we get her home, we can get her fitted with a prosthetic arm that'll do everything her old arm could. And 16-squared tactile skin is dirt cheap about now."

Liz didn't answer.

"If you don't lighten up fast, I'm going to give you a good strong dose of fluoxetine."

Liz uttered a short sentence that ended with 'yourself'.

"Fine. I'm going to go check on Montag."

Dirkins got to his feet and walked across the Gondola. The sounds of Kanoff guiding Da Vega through her first moves faded slightly as he rounded the pillar Montag was leaning against. He cracked open the left eyelid and pulled out a penlight.

Montag's eye turned and focused on him.

"Oh," Dirkins muttered, dropping the light. "You're awake, huh. Can you speak?"

Montag lifted his head a little, and his cheeks twitched. Nothing intelligible could be heard.

"Ok, see if you can follow my fingers with your eye..." Dirkins leaned around the pillar to look at the rest of Sierra squad. "Hey, guys, he's awake!"

"Washt shitchashin?" Montag mumbled.

"What?"

"Whashteh sitchuashin? Where'r we?"

* * *

**Elevator Room, 1430 Hours**

The final reports from the Banshee pilots had come in. The last of the Human dropships fleeing this base had been shot down, most by Vlar's own forces. It gave him hope that this fiasco, as out of control as a fire through dryland crops, may burn itself out and be contained.

And here, in the circular elevator room, the energy barriers that had been used so skillfully to divide the Humans were gone now. Only a drop of great depth separated Vlar 'Koalomee from the Humans below. Further security programs had been activated, and that group could be dealt with at leisure.

The Murderer wasn't among them.

Vlar continued on to the elevator that lead back to the base, followed by his newly appointed adjutant. The Murderer, for all its luck, was easy to follow. Krish had described a soldier clad in armor that shifted in the light, and distinctive armor was rare enough amongst the vermin. But the tree that had crushed the Spirit dropship on top of the base had been felled by an energy blade. A blade that had cut through the shield of the Hunter that charged the escaping Humans, and the security door that had halted them as well.

It was benevolent of the Gods to provide him with such a clear trail, but why must they mock him so?

Vlar's fate, it seemed, was mixed with luck and disgrace. As the battle had raged and lost down here, hope beat stronger above. The attention on the abortive follow-up to the first assault on the Human base had been drawn away when the Demon had marched through the most pious of the Covenant and entered the Control Room to Halo. Even now, legions were being mobilized to retake the very place where the Forerunner's hands had guided the inner workings of Halo.

Creiva 'Dontaree, a Major Domo who'd been the one who first reported Mortumas 'Kandonomee's death, and thus found himself acting adjutant, bowed behind Vlad.

"Reorganization is complete, sir," he reported. "Salvage has not yet begun, but the work crews have begun cleaning up the Human residue. Do you require the casualty numbers?"

"I know the casualties," Vlad replied, hating what he would have to do next. Good warriors had died taking this part of the Holy Relic, and Mortumas's Legion would be forced to abandon it soon, to seek out the Murderer. Not being able to stay and rest seemed disrespectful to the valiant dead, as if the place they had fallen would not be sanctified until the Legion had paid its last respects.

"Bring two Banshees down here," Vlad 'Koalomee ordered. "No more. They are to scout and trail the Gondola take by the Humans, and to break off if engaged. Task two pilots to it, who can follow orders and put pragmatism above glory. Select a team of fifteen slave Unggoy to cleaning up the _, and leave an officer here to supervise them. All others who still have fight left, they are to regroup with the Spirits and prepare to leave at a moment's notice."

Creiva glanced at the elevator, a deep well that lead to the chthonic depths of Halo. "What of the Humans we have entrapped?"

"They have no way out," Vlad explained. "That elevator is the only exit from the lowest annex, and that can be deactivated from the control room."

By this time, they had reached the energy bridge, and Vlad stopped halfway across.

"Creiva, what has been done with the body of Krish 'Janulee?"

"We have done nothing with it," Creiva replied, implying that the thought of referring to Krish as anything other than an "it" hadn't occurred to him.

"Take _him _up to the apex of this temple and burn his body with full honors, then," Vlad commanded. "Ever afterward, his name is to be spoken with respect befitting such a dedicated warrior."

Creiva stiffened and hesitated for a moment. Vlad remembered his mentor telling him that respect could not be commanded by those who had earned it, and could not be commanded unto those who did not deserve it. And until recognized by a Minister or the Fleet Master of the Fleet of Particular Justice, respect was the only capital he had to trade in.

"His body was broken," Vlad said. "His resolve was not. He deserves nothing less."

Creiva clicked his mandibles and stalked off to carry out Vlar's orders.

Vlad stayed behind for as long as he would let himself, gazing at the foundations of Halo, the aeons-old columns and towers that surrounded him. Amidst all his struggles, he wondered if he would ever find time to appreciate the glory of Halo.

* * *

**Gondola, 1518 Hours**

"In short, that bandage comes off when I tell you to take it off, and not a moment before. I told you not to tumble and hit your head, and what did you do? You go and take a grenade to the face. Throw me a bone, here, okay? Show me that you're listening."

Montag gazed sedately at Dirkins, his right eye and much of his head covered in gauze. He'd been surprised that he'd survived at all, when he learned the full extent of his injuries.

"You'd be surprised at what people can survive," Dirkins explained. "People get nails and bullets lodged in their heads and go for years without realizing it."

He trailed off, realizing that he was probably encouraging Montag's behavior. "The important thing is, you can still remember who you are, where you grew up, and how much money you owe me. And you get to be Cyclops for the next few days."

Montag shrugged and put his helmet back on. "Don't worry, I won't let Nobody stab my eye out."

Dirkins paused in the middle of packing his medical gear. "Wait, don't you mean that nobody's going to stab your eye out?"

"Not if I can help it," Montag shifted and felt the bandages on his arm. "Before we stop somewhere, I want everyone to check their ammo and distribute it evenly. Same goes for medical equipment. If you buy the farm, Dirkins, I don't want to have to resort to mercy killings."

"We already did that," Kanoff said. "We don't have enough."

"How much?"

"One-seventy MA5 rounds, fourteen shotgun shells. The way we burn through it, that's not enough for one minute of combat. We've got plenty of plasma tech, but no way to know how many shots from those. Two needlers, with 94 shots apiece. That's just about the only good news."

"OK, then we ghost the Covies we run into and take their weapons. Any engagement we get into, the objective is to capture vehicles so we can return to the Pillar of Autumn."

"Hey, wait," Da Vega interjected. "You were out, but we decided to radio Alpha Base and request a Pelican!"

"Yeah, I thought of that too," Montag said. "But there's three problems I see with that. Namely, it requires us to sit around on our hand after beaming our location to the Covenant. Even if they can't decrypt a signal, they can trace it back to its origin."

"Yeah, that's why we're going to tell them to send the Pelican somewhere else, and meed up with them."

"If they send the Pelican, and that's point number three. Anyway, that works a little better, but we run the risk of running into an ambush."

"And the Pillar of Autumn is any better?"

"Yeah," Montag countered. "Because then we'd be fighting on familiar ground, won't be announcing our presence, and won't be relying on someone else to rescue us. We could warm up a Pelican, load all the medical, ammo, and petrol it can carry, and fly out."

"What about the whole Covenant garrison there? They'd outnumber us fifty-to-one, and we wouldn't have a whole company at our backs this time."

"If we do things right, Da Vega, they won't even know we're there. And there's point number two; we need serious medical attention. All respect to your handiwork, Dirkins, but I can't see myself lasting three days here in this condition. And look at June! They might have prosthetics on the Autumn, but I can guarantee you they won't have them at Alpha. So the case's closed."

Everyone wanted to say something. Nobody did.

"OK, Jonesy, how far 'til we stop?"

Jonesy, sitting in the back of the group, shrugged. "Something on the control panel looks like a status bar, and it's about two-thirds of the way through. We've been traveling for three hours at, my guess, forty klicks, so we'll see where we're going I ninety minutes, maybe."

"Right. Everyone get some shuteye, if you need it. Where's my backpack?"

As Montag sorted through his ammunition and MREs, everyone drifted off to the other side of the Gondola. He could hear Jonesy talking with the twins, but not about prosthetics.

The conversation had gone about as well as it could. Something seemed to be bothering Da Vega, but everyone else seemed to be warming up to him. They were going to increase his chances of survival, having accepted his plan to retreat to the Autumn.

Going over a mental to-do list, Montag frowned. He had everything planned out, even sketchy ideas of how to get onto the downed cruiser without being detected. But there was a blank spot just after 'Arrive'. Was he supposed to explain his plan to the rest of the squad, ask for volunteers? They might object; there was a difference between fighting to the death and suicide. If they didn't want to die, what Major Sherman had told Montag about commandeering a Covenant Cruiser would probably only reinforce that sentiment. Should he withhold that information?

So, assuming he told them what he planned to do, and they didn't put him down, what could they do? A Pelican would take forever to reach Minimum Safe Distance, and then it had nowhere to go. It would just coast on forever, the Squad locked inside cyro tubes until their interception by debris, a gravity well, or the heat death of the universe. Whichever came first.

"Montag, we need to talk."

Montag blinked and looked up. "Da Vega, you're sitting on my blindside. If you're after conversation, that's not a polite thing to do."

A medical syringe tumbled into his field of vision and landed between his boots.

"First, what's that?"

Montag picked up the syringe and read the label, even though he didn't need to.

"Coretin. It's a pharmaceutical drug, they use it on opium junkies who are brought into a hospital. Counters the mental effects of opiates, and I hear it does wonders as an anti-hallucinogen."

Da Vega's eyes narrowed. "And you take it because?"

"Opiates. Morphine. Take some Coretin after a shot of PPM, and I can think straight. Brings some of the pain back, but it's worth it."

"If that's what it does, why hasn't the UNMC adopted it?"

Montag was starting to get irritated, but it didn't show. Possibly because his face was still numb. "Hell if I know. I've been taking it on and off for four years, and I'm doing just fine."

"Maybe," Da Vega ventured. "Probably not. From what we saw, that stuff let you go toe-to-toe with an Elite after taking a grenade to the head. Sounds like a rumbledrug."

Montag had fought Innies hyped up on rumbledrugs, usually PCP with unsavory additions. He wasn't impressed. "I think the fact that I _am_ still in one piece and I'm not still wigged out speaks volumes in my favor."

"Shows what you know. Some cocktails are so subtle, you wouldn't know it until you see them break a table."

"You know, maybe it is a rumbledrug. Maybe it can be used as a rumbledrug. You only have my word for it," Montag said. "But this isn't just about the Coretin, is it? If it was, you wouldn't be hounding me like this, would you?"

"I've seen your command style, Gui. It seems to consist solely of ordering people to do stuff, and holding a gun to their head. You did it to Kanoff and me, you did it to Jonesy when you wanted those EFPs fabricated, and you did it to Lincoln twice. Maybe three times. You came back with his ammunition bag after all."

It was a good thing Montag's face was numb, or he would've struggled with the poker face.

"He was dead when I got there."

Da Vega was barely fazed. It was an expected excuse, even if it was true. "I'm playing along for now, Montag. You've got some genuinely good ideas, but if you try to pull a gun on us again, you won't."

Montag watched her get up. "I assume this conversation will be continued in the future?"

"Probably."

Alone on his side of the Gondola, Montag sat for a while, thinking. Some time later, he pulled out the Handgun, pulled back the slide, and examined the firing action.

* * *

**Gondola, 1530 Hours**

"So, I leave two holes in my group, and even if you have me completely surrounded, you can't take that territory. They're called eyes."

'What?" Da Vega demanded, staring at the clump of red and blue scraps of mylar. "Says what?"

"It's a logical extension of capturing. If I have one of your pieces surrounded on four sides, the adjacent sides, it's gone. And to capture territory, it has to be completely filled in with our pieces. So, if you have two or more empty spots surrounded on all sides, I can't capture both of those spots in the same move, and I can't capture that territory."

"Oh," Da Vega said. It made sense, and despite her confusion, she was interested in the game. "I guess I can start doing that next time."

"Start it right now," Kanoff suggested, pointing at a cluster of blue scraps. "You're most of the way there already."

Montag sat down nearby, backpack in his lap. "Playing Go?"

"Yeah," Kanoff said. "You know how to play?"

"Not at all. I just heard you two talking," Montag turned to Da Vega. "Need help?"

"You just said you didn't know how to play!" she replied testily.

"True," Montag said. He slowly disassembled the Handgun, putting the pieces in neat little rows on a lint-free cloth. Mostly, he watched Kanoff and Da Vega play go.

"Hey, Kanoff, that game kinda reminds me of something."

"What?" Kanoff asked as he cut off an encircling maneuver from Da Vega.

"This old story I read in Primary, about a farmer in Tsarist Russia. He keeps moving further east because he wants more land, and he can never get along with his neighbors. Eventually, he meets a tribe of natives who'll give him all the land he wants for a thousand rubles."

With a sinking feeling, Kanoff realized that he wasn't going to have enough time to leave two eyes. Immediately, he tried to connect the cluster to another with a line of red scraps.

"The catch is, he has to walk all the way around the land he claims and be back to the starting point at nightfall. So eh starts out at the crack of dawn, and keeps seeing land that would be good for rye, or pasture ideal for raising sheep."

Da Vega grinned. She'd used her turns to put a small wall extending from one of her clusters. Kanoff was left with a cluster that was almost completely walled in, with no room for a blank spot.

"When he's traveled quite far, he realizes that the sun is going down. With all his might, he races to the point where he started, only to collapse and die from exhaustion when he finishes. So for all the sweat he spent in search of more, all the land he ever needed was a plot three meters long, two wide, and two deep."

Kanoff stared at the makeshift board, planning his next move. "You very well might have thrown the game, you know?"

Montag shrugged as he cleaned the firing assembly. "I've played poker, and I've noticed that the best help you could give the new guy is to distract the pro at the table."

"Whatever. Neat story," Kanoff said. "But I like my stories to be more subtle."

"It's a parable. It's supposed to be that way."

Da Vega laughed. "Yeah, but what kind of natives would just hand over so much land for... however much money that was?"

"Natives with a deep understanding of the human condition, Rose," Kanoff replied. "But how about my restaurant? How much land do you think we'd need for that?"

"Mostly ritzy places opt for something the size of the room we were using for HQ," Montag said. "You'd need another room nearby for a kitchen, which it didn't have, and I can't say much in favor of the view you had in there."

"You don't have to hide the kitchen," Da Vega said. "Best place I was ever in had the kitchen out in the middle of everything."

"Like a Deli?"

"No, Gui, like an island in the middle of all the tables. You could smell the food cooking, but it wouldn't block your view of the theater."

"Sounds weird," Montag said. "Although most of the fancy places I've been in, we were raiding for food."

"She's got the right idea, but I've got a better one," Kanoff said. "Imagine loading ten or twelve tables in here, setting a kitchen up in the middle of the bottom floor, and setting a theater up in the upper floor?"

"That's something I'd come all the way out here to see," Montag said. "And if you've got all ten of the trams going from HQ, you-"

"I'm sorry, a tram? We named it a Gondola."

"Yeah. A tram, those city buses that run on light rails and electricity. Kinda like what we got here?"

Da Vega looked at the massive beams of energy running through a pylon to each side of the Gondola, and fading out not far away. "Yeah, looks more like we're floating on beams of energy, not running on them."

"I don't know about that," Montag said. "For all we know, the center of gravity is above the beams, meaning it's riding on them, not floating on them."

Kanoff smiled at the weak argument. "Sorry, Montag. Gondola just sounds better from an advertising stance. Anyway, the restaurant is only a little bit of what we can have here. That area around the base we raided, that would've made a nice golf course. And the structure below our base would be ideal for BASE jumping."

"Starting to sound like a resort, not a restaurant," Da Vega said. "But first, we'd have to win Halo back from the Covenant, win the war, and claim this place before the government does. That's a tall order, and it's assuming we're going to win."

The Handgun reassembled, Montag lay back and watched the superstructure of Halo pass on by.

"That's alright," he said. "That's alright. I used to think that we'd figure out how to fire missiles at right angles to reality and win the war, but you still need something to fight for that can't get glassed. When we get out of here, you could go into OCS or get into Supply and Logistics, something to get real estate here. And when you do, I've got twelve years of pay invested in Earth-based munitions companies."

"Nice. Twelve years and you're still a Lance Corporal?"

"Twelve years and I'm _currently_ a Lance Corporal. I've been everything up to an E-5. Anyhow, I vote we call this place "The Restaurant at the End of the Universe."

"That works better as a description, Montag. Like, if we call this place 'Foundation', then the ads would refer to it as "Foundation, the Restaurant at the End of the Universe. Pretty clever though, unless we're only a dozen lightyears from Earth."

"I vote we call it "The Sierra," Da Vega said. "Name it after the squad."

"Or 'The Morris', after the guy who lead us here," Kanoff proposed.

Montag rolled over and let them talk it out, falling into a fitful, uncertain sleep.

* * *

**A/N: Whoo! It's finally up!**

**Personally, I'd pay whatever price Kanoff is asking just to get a flatbed Warthog, several extra fuel cells, food for a week, and a tent. Just wander aimlessly across the surface of Halo. Anybody else just get that feeling, first time they played the second level of the first game?**

**When writing this, I found and took the opportunity to insert a little joke from the Odyssey. If you found it, congratulations.  
**

**In other news, Wikipedia has an alarmingly scant page when it comes to info on how to perform amputations. I had to resort to digging out the old health manual, and I had an alarming vision of people bleeding out and dying because the teenager in the house insisted on using the internet to find out how to operate on them. So, like most of the injuries in this fic, I tried to get June's amputation semi-realistic. **

**Even so, I imagine there's some Medical Science majors out there, waiting to skin me alive.**

**Final note here is Go. A fascinating little game that a computer can't play worth crap (And neither can I) that a friend introduced me to years ago. We agreed that it was probably the game most likely to be played in space (Besides a variant of chess, with bullets and casings standing in for the pieces) so that's the main reason it got dropped in, in favor of a more familiar game. Unlike the complexities of chess, the rules can be narrowed down into "Take turns placing black and white stones on the intersections of a 19x19 grid. Enemy capture takes precedence over self-capture." I hope it didn't take away from the narrative any.**

**Well, here's to the next chapter of Isolation, the next chapter of Nightmare, and the eventual publication of "Holiday Spirit".**


	26. Caught the Bastard Asleep 'fore They Did

_**The Sniper-Scout teams, Recovery troopers, and the ELINT/ELWARFARE groups pride themselves on cutting every last unnecessary gram from their equipment. Travel light, ride fast, and if they can scavenge it from the battlefield, they don't take it with them to begin with. That's mostly the Recovery guys, though.**_

_**But when you see them all head out carrying only tins of fruit and dried vegetables for food, you sincerely hope they're on a vegetarian diet. Because the alternative is something you don't want to contemplate.**_

**_First Lieutenant Gregor Orteza, Fourth Company of the UNSC Siberia Prime __Expeditionary force

* * *

_**

**1623 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Gondola In Transit  
Halo**

A number of things could limit visibility in open-air environments, chiefly dust and relative humidity. This meant that the foundations of Halo took upon a bluish pall in the distance, and the finest details were faded at even the highest resolution on Kanoff's binoculars.

Fortunately and unfortunately, the Covenant weren't all that far away.

"Three Elites. Two blues and a redcoat," Kanoff reported. He quietly withdrew back into cover, giving Montag room to move in.

Partially exposed in the prone position, Montag froze, checked the scope mounting on the Rifle, and then glared at Jonesy.

"Did you touch this?" he asked in a voice more serious than a nuclear exchange.

"Yeah, I was counting the hash marks."

"Did you mess with the scope settings?"

Jonesy knew he was walking on thin ice. "Didn't go near it."

"Right," Montag said, switching gears. He activated the scope and beamed the video feed to each of the Marines. "Rear guard, if not a lance stuck with inventory duty. Structure ahead is two floors tall, not clear how many below. Objective is to silently kill the leadership, secure ramps from lower levels, and that elevator that looks like it goes to the surface. If any Covenant escape alive, we're toast. Jonesy, you said the tram is two-way only?"

"Gondola, Montag."

"Yeah," Jonesy said. "The control panel doesn't have very many options."

"Right then. No gunfire if possible, we'll try and kill them quietly."

"Yeah," Liz interjected. "How do you go about killing an Elite quietly?"

* * *

**Beacon Tower, Sublevel Dock, 1631 Hours**

The Gondola came in to dock and a gangplank slowly extended to meet the structure. The Elite in charge, newly promoted, regarded it with suspicion. It appeared to be abandoned, but even he could smell the reek of Humans.

A boarding party had been prepared the minute the Gondola had moved into view, a silent and unexpected guest. The party crossed the gangplank, expecting glorious combat, but was quickly disappointed. A seemingly exhaustive search failed to turn up anything other than blood spots, although one Jackal heard a zipping noise of unknown origin.

One of the two blue-armored Elites was ready to return to his superior and report when he heard the other Minor Domo scream, briefly.

He raced into the other side of the Gondola, and saw a trail of amber liquid running down a ramp, stinking of ammonia. Weapon at the ready, back to the wall, the Elite crept up the ramp and followed the liquid until it disappeared over the edge of the Gondola.

The Elite glanced to both sides, peered into the shadows around him, and then looked over the edge.

That's when one hundred and ten kilos of Private Gerald M. Kanoff swung down from above and kicked the Elite over the side.

* * *

**Gondola, 1632 Hours**

Montag had barely back to his hideout and zipped up his pants when the first Elite showed up, following the yellow-green road. From his vantage point behind a conduit, he watched as it became the first victim to gravity.

"Give them a trail and no explanation, and they'll do all the rest for you," he said as he pulled out a bottle of disinfectant and sprayed both hands.

"Yeah, well, it's still disgusting."

Kanoff was quickly and quietly pulled back up into the rafters, and across the room, Montag turned to stare down Da Vega.

"Da Vega, I'm counting on you, Dirkins, and Kanoff to secure the elevator when this all goes south, and I'm detecting more animosity from you than my creative drug use deserves. So right now is your chance to get it all out in the open."

"You want followers, Montag?" Da Vega asked, her eyes narrowing. "Earn them. Maybe we don't know exactly what your job was in the San Lorenze massacre, but it's a good indication that you don't have much regard for human life. People like leaders that they know will sacrifice to save them, not the other way around."

Nothing passed between the two antagonistic Marines for a few moments. If they heard the second Elite follow the bait and get pushed off the Gondola, neither gave any indication of it.

"What's human life worth? Nothing. Hyperinflation set in once we hit number ten billion, and it's only gone downhill from there. Human life is worth what we make it worth, and the people who are fighting to keep extinction at bay, you, me, everyone else here, we are the exceptional ones. You all are the ones I'd make sacrifices for. It's the people back home, the profiteers and the Innies and the journalists and the civvies who I have nothing but contempt for."

"Do you practice that speech in front of the mirror each morning?"

Montag's cheek twitched. "Are we done yet?"

"Yeah. By your own admission, you'd probably make a decent officer, but you're certainly a lousy human being."

Montag stood and stepped over her, walking hunched-over in the claustrophobic tube. It was dark, and out of his peripheral vision, he saw several ragged holes in the wall opening out into a darker hallway. Concrete rubble and soot lined each of the holes, good proof that the Coratin was wearing out. Hell, he knew for a fact that the walls of the tube were smooth and unbroken.

At the end of the tube was a bend that continued on out of sight. Having scouted it out, Montag knew that it led to a steep incline that leveled off, and the Marines would be able to jump to safety.

Conversely, a clever Elite or an ambitious Jackal could backtrack it's way up and run into the Marines. Prudently, Montag peeked around the corner, Rifle at the ready.

He was greeted with the sight of a well-lit hallway, the floor slightly tattered from a company of Covenant marching through, occupied solely by a UNMC Marine running past, screaming his head off. When you're doused in burning napalm, you didn't have a whole lot else to do.

Montag ducked back out, blinking his good eye. How long had it been since he thought of that incident, where friendly fire had been taken to a whole new level of irony?

Lieutenant Orteza had been a threat to the integrity of Mirsky's command, a pain, just like Da Vega. His death had been an accident, a tragedy, but also a convenience.

Montag turned to Da Vega.

"Clear. Let's go."

* * *

**Control Panel, 1637 Hours**

The control panel was not very obvious. It was tucked away in the front of the Gondola, out of sight of the Covenant outside. It was Jonesy's great hope that that fact, combined with the Elite's screams coming from the back of the Gondola, would prevent him from being found.

A Grunt had already passed him by, too dull to look behind the control panel's pedestal. But the Jackal in the room was a little more methodical. He couldn't see it, it couldn't see him, but he could hear its avian hissing and the low hum of its shield.

The solution was rubbing its neck against his boot, demanding to be given a good scratching. Junior, the cat, had fallen asleep in Liz's backpack and dropped off the radar until Dirkins had finished the post-op on June. Then, when everyone had gotten ready to disembark, Junior had stuck with him and refused to budge because... if cats ever have a reason for doing something, Jonesy would be surprised. He just didn't have the heart to tell it to leave.

Now, with the Jackal drawing near, Jonesy caught the cat's attention and remembered how it had taken stay, sit, and roll over commands back at HQ. He pulled out his M6D, turned the laser sight on and said "Catch the dot, Junior!"

Junior immediately zeroed in on the dot like an addict spying a sugar coated ball of methamphetamine. Jonesy jerked the gun up, and the tabby launched out of cover and bounded after the elusive dot.

The Jackal screeched and spun to follow Junior, and in that moment of distraction, Jonesy dove out of cover. Time blurred as the dot and the barrel of the M6D converged on the unarmored part of the Jackal's neck.

"Jonesy," his radio cackled. "Pay the fa-"

The rest was cut off by the M6D's sharp report. "Pay the fare", code to activate the Gondola and run. Except he had problems of his own.

A quick glance out the window revealed that the Covenant were rushing for the Gondola, suspicion turned to bloodlust.

"On it," he whispered into the radio as he relieved the Jackal of its shield gauntlet. "Junior, get over here!"

Gauntlets on both wrists, cat under one arm and SCMT under the other, Jonesy slapped the part of the control panel that activated the gondola and ducked out the window, falling three meters to the deck.

With his free hand, he activated the shield on his right arm and turned it against the Covenant on the Gondola. Still exposed to the Covenant outside, he kicked the other gauntlet in a futile attempt to activate the shield. Junior broke free and raced for cover, and Jonesy followed. The floor was retracting into the dock, and falling off the edge was worse than risking plasma fire.

* * *

**Failsafe Clamps, 1637 Hours**

Dirkins crouched in the tunnel on the north side of the Gondola, the twins behind him. He'd been in here during transit, and he'd been surprised when a long beam had slid in during the docking process. It made sense, sort of. If the a-grav on the Gondola failed, smart engineers would want systems in place to prevent a five-hundred meter fall.

There was, fortunately, enough room above the beams to crawl on and get out.

"So, what now?" June asked.

It was a legitimate question. They could reach the dock if one stood upon another's shoulder's but it was off to the side, and some dangling over a seemingly bottomless pit would be involved.

"Kanoff," Liz whispered. "You stand on my shoulders and pull the rest of us up."

Kanoff nodded, reached over, and grabbed for the beam as it began to retract into the dock.

The platform serving as a gangplank began to retract as well, and the coronas of energy the Gondola seemed to ride upon hummed to life once more. The Gondola began to move away, stranding a platoon of Covenant on it and the four Marines on the retracting beam.

"Montag!" Liz yelled like a curse while Dirkins muttered something that sounded akin to "Not like this..."

"Hey, there's a level below us," June said, before rolling off the beam. The rest took a moment to assimilate that fact before following suit.

The floor below them was about four meters below, not a comfortable drop by any means. Liz landed right next to June, got to her knees, and surveyed the room. Besides a ramp that led to the upper levels and the obligatory columns and arches that made no sense, the sole occupant of the room was a large methane tent.

"So much for situational awareness," Liz thought darkly.

Liz and Dirkins opened fire with their assault rifles, catching a Grunt carrying a plasma cannon. It spun around, dropped the weapon, and began to run backwards, yelling for help. It didn't get far.

The Marines raced for the ridged walls of the methane tent, Kanoff in the lead, Liz standing between the Covenant and her sister. The Grunts were running around the methane tent, dying one at a time to Kanoff's shotgun as he alternately fired and reloaded. When they reached the plasma cannon, Kanoff dropped his gun and picked up the cannon, turning it upon a wave of three Grunts.

They finally came to the entrance of the methane tent, an alcove containing a control panel by a recessed door, a charging crate for plasma weapons, and a leering Jackal with a hand on the control panel. It slapped a button without ceremony or a single alien taunt, and the door opened.

Kanoff fired a burst at the Grunt-sized sphincter, and then turned the cannon on the Jackal. With a sound like a giant inhaling, the methane pouring out of the tent ignited, and a blue ball of fire raced back into the tent, turning yellow before the rapidly-closing doors cut off the Marine's view.

Dirkins was the first one to break the silence, which he did by punching Kanoff in the arm. "You suicidal _moron!_ What were you thinking?"

"What was I thinking?" Kanoff said. "I was thinking fast. That Jackal probably overrode all the systems in order to get the doors open like that, but it was expecting our weapons fire to ignite the methane when it mixed with the air. But I figured, well, I figured that Grunts probably don't breath their methane pressurized, so it wouldn't come out like you hit the top of a gas cylinder. That, and I figured that the door would snap closed if it detected a fire or something."

"You exchanged a slow, continuous burn for a big bang when it got all mixed up with the air out here. Nice gamble," Liz said, rubbing her forehead. It had still felt like a concussion grenade and a flashbang going off.

"Alright," Dirkins said. "Let's move that crate over to cover the door, and we'll meet up with the others."

He and Kanoff grabbed the crate and pushed. The condensation from the water vapor on the ground made the going slick, and the two of them struggled for traction. This left Liz as the only one on guard when the Elite struck. In one smooth motion, it stepped out of the shadows, tore her assault rifle out of her grasp, and kicked her to the ground. It stepped on her chest, flung the rifle aside, and pulled out a small energy blade. Here, its progress was interrupted by a shotgun blast to the torso.

"_You stay away,"_ June shouted as she inverted her grip on Kanoff's shotgun, grabbed the forward grip under her armpit and racked it. _"from my sister!"_

The second shot, accomplished by firing the gun while swinging it, downed the shields and ripped skin off the Elite's neck. Shot three got most of the head, killing the alien. Shots four through six were pure overkill.

Kanoff glanced at the plasma cannon, its job spoken for in the time it took to pick up and turn around. "Hey, doc, if we cut the stock off that shotgun, could you graft it to her arm?"

"No, I'm afraid the Hippocratic Oath has something to say about that," Dirkins deadpanned.

* * *

**Elevator Door, 1641 Hours**

Montag flipped the last Grunt over and stabbed it in the head with his energy sword. A couple of them had run for the door to the elevator when the fighting broke out below, but he and Da Vega had gotten there first. Quick headshots from Da Vega's assault rifle had eliminated most of them, but Montag was overly wary of them playing dead.

"Why didn't we just use that in the first place?"

Montag waved the energy blade around, letting the shadows dance. "Blue, glowy, makes a humming sound. Not very stealthy."

"Doesn't have to be. We know that Covenant seeing you with that thing sends them into a frenzy, maybe trying to get it back. You could've holed up somewhere where they could only charge you one at a time, and we pick off the ones that run for the elevator."

"Yeah," Montag said dryly. "What about when they wise up and start using grenades?"

"Hey, there was plenty of room to move on the gondola."

"Still leaves the problem of me getting into melee range of two dozen Covenant and dodging sticky grenades en masse. Not a minor problem if you ask me."

"You got a problem killing things that can shoot back?"

Montag hefted the Rifle. "What was your first clue?"

"I'm fine," Jonesy said as he walked up. "How's it going at this end?"

"Good so far. Get June and Kanoff and start cataloging what we've got in all these crates. If it's anything other than food, I want to hear about it. If there's any turrets or cannons, have Liz and Dirkins bring them up."

A minute later, Liz, June and Dirkins brought up a plasma cannon apiece. Dirkins caught Montag's glance, guessed that Montag was wondering why June was carrying heavy equipment, and shrugged.

"She just gunned down an Elite with a shotgun. Three people and three cannons make for one trip, and I was afraid to say no."

Montag shrugged. "Further proof that cripples can fight."

Liz looked at him like he was picking a fight, noticed the bandages covering his right eye, and decided it wasn't worth the effort.

Montag finished unrolling his backpack and started wrapping his boots in duct tape. "Nearly burned the soles off getting into the HQ. Would've traded boots with Morris before we interred him, but his boots were the wrong size. Boots of the wrong size will cripple you just as fast as broken boots."

"Didn't he deserve a little more respect than that?" Da Vega asked, glancing over the contents of his backpack.

"We took his ammunition, grenades, and rations. What's the difference?" Montag countered. "If it makes you feel better, his boots were too big."

Da Vega thought about it, and then nodded. There was a little poetic justice in that.

Montag stashed the roll of tape in the backpack, stuck a bag of wire clamps into his pocket,and blackened his face and bandages with camouflage cream.

"I'm going to go up and do some recon. In the meantime, I want June, Liz, and Jonesy to get an inventory of what we have down here, and everyone else guards the door." Montag stashed the cream and pulled out a small aerosol can and sprayed the contents on his armor.

"Yeah," Dirkins said, wrinkling his nose at the smell of wet dirt. "What is that stuff?"

"Overscent. Makes me smell like something other than a human, keeps Jackals from catching wind of me. They were going to combine it with insect repellent, but I guess you can't have everything."

His preparations done, Montag rolled up his backpack and strode for the elevator doors. "Remember, I'm going to radio before I come back down. If I don't say anything, it isn't me, and you guys can open fire."

The elevator doors closed. Moments passed before anyone spoke, and then Dirkins asked "How much civvy gear is he carrying? Seems like the only standard issue item he has is the S2AM."

"That's specialists for you," June answered. "But there was a catalog number on that can, and I expect most of his gear is military issue. Just stuff you'd have to dig through equipment rosters and requisitions to find."

"Is he going to make it?"

"Given his track record," Dirkins said. "I'd bet money on it. He'll want me to sew his head back on, but he'll be alive.

* * *

_Senior Specialist Gui Montag stared at the can of overscent. It smelled strongly of wet dirt, but he had his doubts. Wet dirt was hard to find in the middle of a war-torn city, and wouldn't the Jackals learn to zero in on it anyway?"_

_Beside him, First Lieutenant Gregor Orteza snorted to get the scent out of his nose. "You used way too much."_

"_Duly noted," Montag replied. Orteza probably liked beer, action movies, and fast cars just as much as any other reasonably decent man, but any rapport the two might have established was stillborn. The lieutenant was chafing at the idea of his platoon being subordinated to a group of colonial militia, and he let Montag know every opportunity he got._

"_Group we're fighting ain't that big anyhow. If we aren't stealthy, it's a waste."_

"_The enemy is at platoon strength, plenty of call for precautions. We're not cleared for rockets or grenades, so we're going to try something bolder," Montag glanced over at the technicians plugging into the Subway Maintenance servers, ready to cut power to the tracks at Montag's command. "Pass the orders on down to your men. Nobody fires at the tracks, nobody throws grenades."_

_Orteza snorted, his disdain for the order obvious. Thankfully, he didn't make the cliched crack about harsh language. "What, you Siberians build permacrete buildings and glass subways?"_

"_The subway rails will take whatever punishment you throw at them, lieutenant. But why take the risk?"_

_Montag left the office with the Lieutenant in tow. Peter "Petrol" Petrovski and Rozi were waiting for him, with a squad of recon troops tending to a quartet of uneasy dogs. One of them, a Lab-Retriever mix, gave Montag a curious look and licked his hand. Montag reached out to the soldier holding the leash, picked a dog biscuit out of a pouch, and fed it to the mutt._

"_What's with the dogs?" Orteza asked, getting the unnerving feeling that he was the mushroom of this engagement: being kept in the dark and fed bullshit._

"_Something the PsyWarOps guys came up with. They're loyal, dependable, fun to play fetch with, warm the bed at night, and they were just filling the pet stores when nobody wanted big dogs. Are your men in position, Lieutenant?"_

"_Yes."_

_The maintenance office was on the second floor of the subway station, and after a few turns in a hallway, the offices gave way to a balcony over the tracks, with vending machines, benches, and a bridge going down to the fare turnstiles, currently occupied by the Covenant._

"_Alright then. Order the attack," Montag switched his radio to the dedicated frequencies. "Flanking teams one and two, move into position and open fire."_

_Two floors below, a platoon of UNSC Marines burst out onto the boarding platform, taking cover behind luggage machinery and a barrista, advancing toward the Covenant across six lanes of tracks. Two Recon squads emerged from a maintenance door further down the station, setting up a crossfire with BR45s and an M247 LMG._

_The answer was a surprisingly voluminous deluge of needles and plasma bolts, punctuated with fuel rods. The cover the Marines were using suddenly disappeared in pink and green flashes, and the M247 went down with all hands._

_Behind them, the PWO officer was fumbling with the dogs, affixing canine backpacks to them. He was finished within seconds, and unleashed them. The dogs raced down the stairway to the ticket stations where the Covenant were holed up. They weren't in the Covenant's field of fire until they cleared the metal detector, at which point the one with the yellow backpack caught a plasma bolt to the head and died._

_The one with a red backpack was in the lead. It bravely zeroed in on a red Elite and leaped forth, teeth bared and throat snarling like a professional attack dog. The Elite just plucked it out of the air, snapped the neck, and died with an expression of mild surprise as eight kilos of HE vaporized its upper torso._

_At this point, Montag had set aside the Rifle and pulled out a remote detonator. He pressed a blue button, and then the '1' button on the keypad, flipped the cover off a trigger, and pressed it._

_The dog with the blue backpack became pink mist. More accurately, it became black mist with blue highlights as it took out the Jackal whose gun arm it was chewing on and the surrounding lance of Grunts._

_The final dog, a mutt with a lot of shepherd blood, raced to catch up with its prey as they fled. A lone Elite was caught flat-footed, unwilling to use its fuel rod gun on such a close target. It lashed out with its foot instead, breaking the dog's chest and almost kicking it away. Just not hard enough to kick it out of minimum safe distance._

_Montag stuck the remote detonator in his pocket and fought off an urge to smile as he turned to face Orteza. The Lieutenant had a curious expression, with surprise and mild horror competing on his face._

"_That's another thing about dogs," Montag said. "They come in handy when you run out of MREs."_

_Orteza frowned. Having gone toe-to-toe with the Insurrectionists before, the dog-mine was nothing new, but it usually cropped up when you destroyed their ability to make glide-bombs, rockets, and the good old-fashioned flying car bomb. The Siberians were doing it, and the first week of all-out invasion wasn't even over._

"_Right, they're retreating toward the atrium. Take your platoon and push them back out the entrance," Montag ordered. He flipped his radio to the general channel. "Flanking Team One, assist Orteza's platoon. Team two, recover Covenant assets and make ready for transport. All else, get the subway running!"_

_Resentfully, Orteza disappeared with the rest of the Marines beyond the turnstiles and fare machines. Cooperation between the Siberian Militia (As the UN insisted on calling it) and the UNSC was supposed to break barriers, reassure the UN that Siberia Prime was going rogue in its favor, and letting the UN save face amongst the colonies, but the two field commanders were getting sick of each other. Orteza didn't follow orders gladly from other uniforms, and Montag... was an ex-Marine wearing another service's uniform, saluting another country's flag._

_Montag grabbed the shoulders of a Marine's corpse, Rozi grabbed the ankles, and together they carried it back to the offices, where plastic sheets salvaged from the supply rooms were waiting. They passed more soldiers carrying in Siberians and Marines on their way back out; most of them dead, the rest of them dying._

"_Integrity uncompromised sir," his radio hummed. The techie was, of course, talking about the subway rails. "VIP arriving in forty seconds."_

_Montag stiffened. Zima. That was what they were clearing the subway terminal for. One of three possible destinations for the Zima convoy, and this one had been selected._

"_Lieutenant Orteza," Montag radioed. "Set up a perimeter and defensive emplacements in the Atrium. Do not fall back or return to the platform without permission. Above all, prevent the Covenant from entering from the streets._

_The reply was a simple affirmative, devoid of warmth or courtesy._

_Montag turned and remembered the joke about the light at the end of the tunnel being a train. In this case, it was three. On the outer tracks, armored engines with Scorpion turrets pulled passenger cars converted into armored troop carriers or machine shops, and flatbed cars carrying Scorpions, Warthogs, and BEV-R engineering vehicles. It was a beautiful gunmetal gray offspring of armor, offensive power, and the locomotive._

_The subway train in the center was more conservative. The familiar union of Scorpion and engine pulled a car that had an entire nuclear reactor shoved into it, followed by three armored, windowless cars and more cars devoted to HQ._

_Walking down the boarding platform, Montag found himself awash in elite troopers, all men and women who'd toured with the UNMC or the Army, all decked out in armor derived from ODST BDU._

"_Senior Specialist Gui Montag?" a soldier with Colonel bars emblazoned on his shoulder greeted him. "I need a sitrep."_

_Montag blinked. If the Zima caravan had arrived three minutes earlier, they would have pulled into real estate owned by the Covenant. How could they leave the first and final defense of Siberia Prime to such bad luck? Montag glanced at the datapad in the Colonel's hands and saw a floorplan of the subway station, with red markers behind the fare machines, and the security cubicle gone where it had been obliterated by the dog-mines. Then his eyes glanced up at the undamaged security cameras linked into Superintendent Demidov's network, which the Covenant were learning to seek out and destroy._

_Of course the Colonel knew what the situation was. He was simply factfinding, being thorough, getting impressions from the commander in the field. This realization helped Montag relax a little bit as he related the disposition of the remaining Covenant forces._

"_Well done, Montag," the Colonel said when Montag was through. "We'll be firing Zima unit up in ninety seconds. Inform your commander that all unshielded or Class-3 Sub electronic equipment will need to be shut down and grounded by then."_

"_Yes sir," Montag said with a salute, while mentally going through his equipment. The scope on the Rifle was Class-3, but were its sensors the delicate kind that couldn't be protected from magnetic interference? _

_After relaying the orders to Major Mirsky, Montag sidled over to a group of officers huddling around the communications car. The mutterings in the crowd were dark, confirming the ugly rumors Montag had been hearing. _

"_Covenant Destroyer is bearing down on us, from direction of Transit Ministry. They already blew up Roldoban Station with antimatter bomb, but they've got their plasma weapons primed this time. Going to melt the skyscraper right on top of us," He gave Montag a sidelong look. "To be safe, Covenant troops didn't leave housewarming gift for us, na?"_

"_No, we checked for that. Did we have any Zima assets in Roldoban Station?"_

"_Officially, no. Unofficially, I don't know. Scouts, at most."_

_The closest Montag had ever been to an active glassing site was 300 kilometers, and even then he'd been heading in the opposite direction as fast as a Warthog could go without wrecking the suspension. Now, the end was getting closer each minute, passing over streets he'd gotten to know on his daily commute._

_Ninety seconds were up. Montag had turned off the power to his scope and HMD, but still felt uneasy as a loudspeaker counted down from ten._

"_Désjat'... dévjat'... vōsem..."_

_If his hunch about Zimá was correct, the three armored cars would be generating a powerful magnetic field indeed. What would that do to the building above it? The automobiles left outside? Would it be powerful enough?_

"_Sem'... šest'..."_

_What if it wasn't magnetic? What if it was an entirely different defense? Ridiculously, Montag found the idea terrifying. All the reassurances that it _would_ work from politicians and military brass alike wasn't nearly as meaningful to him as knowing _how_ it worked._

"_Pjat'... četýre..."_

_The lights in the station flickered, and one of the Communications techies raised a hand to her ear. "Demidov reports that Covenant Destroyer has glassed Sinoviet Apartment Complex. It will have clear line of fire in forty seconds."_

"_Tri... dva... odin..."_

_Forty seconds. Even if Montag got into a Warthog now, he wouldn't get more than half a kilometer down the tunnel, probably not even near Minimum Safe Distance. The question wasn't whether he had time, it was whether Zimá would work._

"_Nul'."_

_The disconcertingly calm countdown was replaced by an alarm, slowly climbing in pitch._

"_Zimá Defense System Module 39 is now on-line. All Class 3 Sub electronics are to remain powered down. All unauthorized personnel are to stay clear of central train."_

_Montag shuddered. His skin felt like ants were crawling over it. Was it Zimá? His imagination?_

_The muttering had stopped, and even the Communications technicians were speaking in whispers. "40th Lanzer Battery is shifting fire away from Destroyer. Targeting fighter escorts..." _

"_Lead elements of 92nd Armored Cavalry is arriving via Southbound Freeway..."_

"_SATCOM 493 unresponsive. Pinging sister satellites..."_

_Ten seconds. Montag never thought he'd live forever, but those seconds stretched on and on._

_The techie furthest from Montag, so far into the Communications car that Montag could barely hear him, stood halfway out of his chair. "Sir!" he addressed the Lieutenant present. "Superintendent Demidov reports that Destroyer has come to a complete stop! It's powering down all offensive weaponry!"_

_The deafening cheers from around the car were soon joined by everyone else in the station. Montag inhaled, having held his breath for half a minute. The air smelled of ozone, wet dirt, explosives, and raw dogmeat, but it was easily the most refreshing breath of cool air he'd ever taken._

_Zimá worked. They'd stopped the Covenant. Now all Siberia Prime needed to do was push them back.

* * *

_

**Elevator, 1644 Hours**

Montag turned the can of overscent around in his hands. Strange, how scent could bring back vivid memories. They'd even used aromatherapy in treatments for PTSD, after his first tour.

Was trauma slowing him down? Montag couldn't help but notice that he tired more easily in the past few days. Not fatigue, but a general weariness.

The elevator slowed to a halt with a speed that made his guts protest and his bladder file for a redress of grievances. He stumbled through the door and adopted a catlike stealth.

He was in a hallway now, with Covenant crates lining both walls, and half a dozen Grunts curled up between them, all sleeping in blissfully ignorant repose. Except for the source of the hyperventilating coming from Montag's right.

Montag dropped into a spinning crouch, trying to sling the Rifle across his shoulder with one hand and covering up the grill on the Grunt's mask with the other. Successful on both counts, Montag drove a knuckle into the Grunt's eye socket and the alien covered its eyes with both stubby hands, rather than trying to hit Montag or warn the other Grunts. With little resistance and less sound, Montag yanked the Grunt back into the elevator room.

The doors closed behind him. There was a pause, followed by a prolonged wail that quickly died down. When the elevator door opened again, the elevator was empty save for Montag, Rifle left behind, Handgun in its holster, and Knife drawn. A nightmare, ironically, if any of the Grunts had been awake.

Montag had the task down to a science. Cover the grill the Grunts exhale and speak through with the left hand, drive the Knife into the rebreather harness-induced callus on the back of the neck, sever the spinal cord and its keratin sheath, roll the head back to stem the flow of florescent blood, and drag. Each Grunt was hauled into the elevator room and dropped into the alarmingly spacious gap between the elevator and the wall.

Whoever the Ringworld's Engineers had been, they hadn't been too concerned about wrongful death and personal injuries lawsuits. Clearly, an advanced species.

When he was finished, Montag continued through the corridor, stopping to record images on his HMD and listen for Covenant troops. The corridor led to an energy bridge across a sunken room filled with crates and devoid of the enemy, and then a ramp to the broad entrance to the base and a curious smell, like wet dirt but cleaner.

Montag smiled. It was raining.

Like a shadow, he crept behind the crates stacked against the wall, taking his time to minimize the noise he made. The base was built into the side of the cliff, with a large deck at Montag's level wrapping around the entrance. On either side of the deck large ramps led down to the ground, where what seemed to be a small armored cavalry division was parked.

All that stood between Montag and freedom was a lone Shade turret, its bored occupant not even going through the motions of being alert. Montag waited for the Grunt to look the other way, rolled an unarmed plasma grenade beneath the Shade, and leaped over the side.

* * *

**Treeline, 1659 Hours**

Far out in the distant foliage, where a large willow-like tree leaned over the edge of a short jump, a Jackal had wandered off alone for reasons of its own. Whatever those reasons may be, it was restricting its patrol to the rain shadow of the tree, which is what made it a target.

Montag stepped out from behind a bush, not caring how much sound he made. The enemy lazily turned around, perhaps expecting one of its kin, and didn't even get a good look at him before a loop of wire ties was thrown around its beak and zipped tight. The followup was a bear hug from behind and a stab into the meat of the shoulder, paralyzing its right side. Montag pulled the Knife free and stabbed it into the bottom of the head, behind the beak. He'd reasoned that the chin there should be free of bone to allow for a windpipe or throat, and was mildly surprised when the Knife bit into bone. He went with plan B and stabbed it in the other shoulder, making it go limp.

Now Montag had a dead body, and the question of disposal was rearing its ugly head. He'd planned for this, of course, the problem was doing it and doing it well. Sleeping Grunts were alright, but a Jackal on sentry duty might be missed.

Still hugging the Jackal to him, Montag turned so the shield was between him and the Covenant base, and waddled over to the willow. A minute later, a time interval punctuated by the sound of ripping duct tape, and the Jackal was standing at attention in the fern-like fronds of the willow. An illusion that worked best at a distance.

Curled up in the dead leaves of past seasons, Montag took a final count of the forces arrayed against the Marines. Three Wraiths, four Specters, and at least four Ghosts. The way they were parked, there were probably another three or four Ghosts, with the bulk of the Wraiths hiding them from view. Most annoyingly, the Ghosts were parked in a semicircle fanned outward, denying him clear shots at the fuel tanks.

Montag continued his survey, looking over the deck around the entrance. Here, the Covenant had not spread out, preferring to use the entrance for storage and the area beneath the deck as an HQ, with plasma barriers around a communications mast. Perhaps due to the rain, the only ones on the upper floor were Grunts manning the four Shades, a smattering of Jackals, and a few low-ranking Elites.

Montag snapped pictures and radioed Da Vega.

* * *

**Beacon Tower Sublevels, 1707 Hours**

"I guess when we get back somewhere, we're going to have to go shopping for prosthesis," Liz said, unsure if she should be smiling. She'd just finished changing the dressing on June's bad arm, and was having the hardest time adjusting. She was closer to her sister than she was to any of her friends and family, had always been since a streak of independence during her early teens, but wasn't sure how to react to the injury. It was going to be a permanent part of June's life, more permanent than bullet holes or plasma burns. As their DI had told them during grenade training, "You can't fix stupid and you can't clone limbs."

"You'll probably get military hardware first, but a civilian model is going to have more options, maybe even a dedicated keyboard link," Liz continued. "Just don't get fake skin or chrome, because that'll just look tacky. Try jungle camo."

June stared at Liz until she finished, and then addressed her with the same tone she'd used when Liz had tried to carry things around for her. "Liz, quit trying to be the responsible one here. You're not good at it, and you're not the older sister anyway."

"Only by ten minutes."

"Exactly," June tapped the stump of her left arm. "I don't have to deal with this yet. When we get back, we'll have to break the news to everybody, but this is the time I get to act like it didn't happen. Don't take this away from me."

"So, what do you want to talk about?"

June's eyes drifted around the room they were in, hooded from PPM use. "New Alexandria... It's gone. I can't believe it, now that I think about it. All the places we didn't go, didn't see... Club Errera. Heard about that place for half our lives, and the place turns out to be too exclusive. Couldn't even get in with fake press passes."

"Yeah," Liz said. "And the restaurant where Mom and Dad met, washing dishes to pay the check. You and I go there, order, eat, and pay the check because we chickened out. How does that happen to a pair of ODST trainees?"

"Gone now. We're never getting that chance again," June took out her camera and began toying with it. "Bet there's a billion places like that, a trillion of 'em. It all meant something to someone, a memory here and a dream there, and it's gone now. Covenant glassed the land and the people who remember it, and now it doesn't exist. It never existed, because there's no record of it."

"Bastards," Liz spat, finding a new dimension of the Covenant's crimes. Slowly, she realized that it was the way it was, how entropy worked. A person dies, and the bad deeds he or she did were buried with them, forgotten. And eventually, their role in life, the things they said and did, were lost to memory. They would become nothing more than a tax record, a name on a genealogical tree and on a tombstone that would weather away. Time burned all things, and the crime of the Covenant was in assuming the role of Time and hastening its work.

Across the room, Kanoff hefted one of the plasma cannons, with the stand folded up against the barrel. He'd realized that the folded stand left the trigger exposed, and that was too good of an opportunity for Jonesy to let go.

Kanoff squeezed the trigger, and five bolts of brilliant blue plasma raced out into the bowels of Halo.

"Nice," Jonesy said. "How's it feel?"

"No recoil, and it's not warm yet. The grip is really, really awkward though."

"Right," Jonesy replied, already digging out a roll of duct tape. "We can make a shoulder strap, guitar-style. Do you want a chainsaw grip on that, or do you prefer an under-the-muzzle foregrip?"

"Yeah, right. Big guy always gets the big gun, huh?"

"Nah. I've already got an idea for what I'm using."

Liz walked up with the newly fraternal twins in tow. "Hate to interrupt your fun, guys, but Montag just called in. You're not going to hurt your back, are you, Jerry?"

Kanoff set the plasma cannon on the ground, careful to bend his knees and not his back. "No, not if Jonesy can do anything about it."

"Good. We've got trouble, and you don't want to miss it," she laid a computer tablet on the crate Jonesy had been using as a table. On the holographic screen were the pictures Montag had taken, in all their cascaded high-definition glory.

"What we're up against looks like a small armored cavalry detachment. Four ball-turret Shades around our exit. Directly below that, they've got their command setup and the motor pool."

"Crap. That's, what, half the force that assaulted Beta? Fewer Wraiths and no Banshees or Spirits, but way more Specters and Ghosts."

"Something like that, but I don't want to get caught up in a loggerhead with all those drivers and soldiers," Kanoff pointed out. "In these narrow halls, it would be a bloodbath for both sides, and they've got a lot more blood to spill than we do."

Da Vega activated the sandbox application on the tablet, and drew an arc capped by half of an octagon. Two bars intersected the semi-octagon at right angles to each other. "OK, very not-to-scale. We've got the mountains, deck, and ramps. On the ground, between the ramps, we've got the motor pool. Between the northern ramp and the mountain, we've got a methane tent the size of a small condominium. To the south, evergreens."

"Right..." Jonesy mused. He tapped the dots on the deck in the hologram with a stylus, trying not to smudge the drawing. "So, plan A is that Montag snipes the Shade gunners, and we can run out, jump off the deck, commandeer the Ghosts, and ride for the sunset. Everyone gets two blue shiners apiece and stick the Spectres so they can't give chase."

"I'm sorry," June said, raising a bandaged stump. "Pilot a Ghost without leftie? Can't be done."

"OK, commandeer the Spectres. Six of us, four Spectres, two people get in the gunner seat to shoot the pursuers, and somebody picks up Montag," Liz offered. "Controls aren't that different from a Ghost."

"We're not jumping off the deck and commandeering anything," Da Vega pointed out. "It's a straight drop ten meters into the middle of some off-duty Elites. Besides, how are we supposed to get out of the range of the Wraiths in Spectres?"

"We commandeer the Wraiths first and have a good time," Jonesy said. Nobody laughed.

"What about your first idea?" June asked. "Can we drop a crate of plasma grenades right on top of them?"

"If it came to that," Kanoff said. "Are you planning on having kids?"

"Hey, it would work," Jonesy offered, walking over to a crate that was recharging plasma rifles. "But pretending this is one of those crates, how are we even going to carry it? I don't see any handles at all."

There was a moment of silence, followed by Kanoff deadpanning "We've all been wondering about that."

Da Vega rolled her eyes. If they got off the ring, Kanoff and Jonesy were probably going to form a bowling team and go drinking on Saturday nights. "Ok, what about a thermobaric? Can you make one with methane?"

Jonesy licked his lips and thought for a moment. "Probably. I'll have to do some reading on... you guys get the tanks out of the Grunt's rebreathers, and see if you can fill them in the tent. I've got some reading to do."

* * *

**Pseudowillow, 1728 Hours**

Montag swept the Rifle through its short arc, judging the period of time it would take him to eliminate the Shade gunners. They weren't the only Covenant up on the deck, but they were the deadliest, and the attention attracted by killing them was less than the attention that would be drawn by the pyrotechnics of an Elite's shield failing.

At five hundred meters, shooting the Grunts through the head was easy. Hitting a plasma grenade from this range was more questionable. He'd rolled one under the Shade, hoping to be able to shoot it and set it off via the kinetic energy of the bullet, but that was out of the question at this range. A pity: it would have drawn attention away from the entrance as only explosives can, and and a stray grenade would have seemed more innocent than a pack of C-12 should one of the aliens see it.

He mused over the inner workings of the plasma grenade, although the shell was the most curious part. Somehow, it could selectively stick to an object and determine whether it had made contact with a valid target. He'd seen them bounce off masonry, metal buildings, and even trees, but it stuck to vehicles, people, and weapons just fine.

Thinking about it for the first time in years, Montag realized that the shell of the plasma grenade was a true miracle material. Was the glowing blue cloud of plasma it emitted a sensor field, determining the size of adjacent objects and proximity to organic matter or heat sources? It was astounding to think about. And the Covenant had probably stolen it from an elder race, not even understanding the implications of such a material.

Montag's grip tightened on the Rifle. On Siberia Prime, there'd been a nasty phrase, loosely translated as "Monkey do." Derogatory, not something to say in mixed company. It referred to a worker who used a machine, understanding that input A yields output B, but not understanding the principles of the machine's inner workings. Such a worker could be replaced by a monkey and not be missed, although automation was a much more likely successor.

"Race that came before, built this place, probably transcended into something greater," the Shadow mused. "The Covenant plunder the graves, steal the technology, destroy the knowledge."

Montag frowned. For all they knew, the precursors who built this place had been thieves themselves, destroyers of culture and knowledge.

"Maybe," the Shadow allowed. "Maybe it is the norm for semi-intelligent races to imitate those who create. Maybe the Covenant are only the latest in a long line of destroyers. But sometime, somewhere, there was a race that innovated first, that developed the technology the Covenant steal today. Whoever that is, we at least do them a favor exterminating the thieves."

"The mark of intelligence is innovation," Montag admitted. Humans had inferior technology, but Humanity had innovated its way into the stars, whereas the Covenant could only imitate and corrupt the knowledge they stole. They were no more than animals, monkeys whose claim to the stars was illegitimate.

Montag flicked the safety on, lest he squeeze the trigger in the middle of his rage-inducing internal monologue.

"Animals, but dangerous animals," the Shadow asserted. "When we win, we'll have to push them back to the planets they evolved on. Destroy whatever technology they have, and even then they're too dangerous to ignore."

Montag could see that. Always someone looking for cheap muscle to shift the balance of power, always some generation decades down the line that would forget the lessons learned in the war. But the Covenant races wouldn't forget. By nature, they were inherently dangerous.

"Exactly. They corrupt the knowledge and tools of one race, they'll do it again. Our victory will have to be a final, permanent one."

Montag understood; he'd used the same argument before. Best to suffer the scorn of future generations, to be thought of as a monster, than to yield even one inch in the fight between Humanity and oblivion. It was a fight all throughout history, the battle between innovators, imitators, and destroyers. Either the imitators and the destroyers were eliminated, or the innovators would die out.

That was what soldiers could understand, but others could not. Soldiers knew that an enemy that could not be cowed would have to be destroyed, that extreme measures might have to be taken at appropriate times. The fact that they were willing to set aside their morality to commit brutal necessities only elevated them over civilians.

He turned back to the Shade gunner, his resolve strengthened. The Ringworld was a monument to its original creators and the technological wonders they had engineered. The Covenant would worship and mimic it, but wouldn't learn as humans would. Destroying the Ringworld was a brutal necessity that would deny Humanity a chance to learn from those that came before them, but Humanity would continue anyway, reach the precursor's technological peaks on its own.

The Covenant... would lose everything. There was no down side.

"Alright, Montag, we're coming out. Thirty seconds."

Montag sent a green acknowledgment light and activated a thirty second timer on his HMD. With the eyepiece covering his only good eye, his whole world shrank down to what the Rifle saw. The reticule hovered over the Shade turret furthest to the north, and Montag adjusted his aim to account for a 5 kph wind and earth-normal gravity.

CRACK!

After a slight delay, the Grunt's head disappeared in a blue mist. The Shade returned to an idle mode, betraying the death of its user.

CRACK!

Another Grunt died, craning its neck to see what the commotion had been, and had given Montag an excellent profile.

CRACK!

The top of a Grunt's head flew open, dislodging the alien's gas mask.

CRACK!

The final Shade gunner died, clever enough to try and scramble out of the turret. Its peculiar curl-back rebreather obscured its profile, but the bullet went through anyway. "AM" wasn't just a time of day after all.

After reloading, Montag set his sights on an Elite that was running for a Wraith, deciding that heavy artillery was more of a priority than Covenant left on the deck. The rest of Sierra squad would have to adapt.

* * *

**Beacon Tower Deck, 1733 Hours**

Six Marines exited the elevator, four carrying the bomb, two of whom were still arguing over what the bomb's name should be. The fifth, Kanoff, was carrying a plasma cannon, and the sixth had opted for a satchel full of plasma grenades and a needler, stuff she could use with only one hand.

Kanoff took the lead, thankful for the absence of Covenant. He was the first across the bridge and up the ramp, fell to the side as they exited the beacon tower, and unfolded the stand for the plasma cannon.

Jonesy, Liz, Da Vega, and Dirkins continued on with their Jackal Shields obscuring their humanoid silhouettes long enough for them to reach the edge of the deck and shove the bomb over the edge, They broke formation and ran back to the entrance. Da Vega paused long enough to empty a full clip of needles at an Elite that had taken possession of a Shade. The Covenant coming to their senses made the trip back to cover harrowing, but Kanoff provided sufficient covering fire for her to make it back.

Jonesy urged her further back into the beacon tower, twisted a key on a remote detonator, and pulled the trigger.

On the ground below the deck, eight small shaped charges detonated, punching neat holes in the methane tanks. The bomb, constructed of sixteen tanks, sections of crate and plenty of duct tape, rolled and flipped, and one section even broke away. It bounced off a Wraith and fought against gravity before running out of gas. By this time, many of the Covenant were setting new short distance sprinting records trying to get away from the improvised bomb. Some of them almost made it.

When the bomb was almost empty, a timer ignited a length of thermite-carbon cord. The shockwave around this heart of fire compressed the methane-oxygen gas mixture at its leading edges to supercritical levels before ignition. This process built up a blast wave that defied the inverse-cube law, retaining its destructive potency far from the epicenter of the explosion. The fuel-air mixture, defying the norms of weapons built from scratch, produced a large percentage of its potential blast power. Enough to shatter trees, overturn Wraiths, implode lungs, and liquify Elites inside their own armor.

The blast wave reached into the beacon tower, weakened by the right angle turn around the edge of the deck and the distance to the room the Marines had sought shelter in. Jonesy winced and gritted his teeth in pain. The pressure wave felt like someone pressing down on his chest, and then was inverted as the air cooled down and rushed back out of the beacon tower. The hot air from the explosion rose and cooled, creating strong winds and nearly sucking his lungs out of his body.

Well, if anybody asked him, that's what he would say it felt like.

Jonesy got to his feet, rubbing his ears. He'd warned everyone about that, and it looked like the precautions had prevented ruptured eardrums or worse. Now it was time to mop up.

* * *

**Pseudowillow, 1734 Hours**

Montag raised his head. The explosion had sounded like the finger-snap of God, followed by a 'fwoosh' sound he typically associated with setting pools of petroleum on fire.

He set the Rifle down on its bipods, activated the Scope view, and surveyed the damage. A few of the Ghosts had been thrown into the trees like a kid's matchbook cars, but the upended Wraiths and Spectres gave better testament to the destructive power of the bomb. And under the deck, the Covenant's communications equipment was smashed and burning.

Flashing his trademark smile, Montag panned around for targets, and then the smile faded away. A distinctive whining sound off to his left alerted him to a number of things. Namely, the Covenant had more than infantry out on patrol, and whatever merits as a concealment tactic a dead Jackal duct-taped to a trio of branches may have, it wouldn't allay the suspicions of anyone closer than twenty meters. Quite the opposite, in fact.

A rapid-fire burst of plasma proved that the Spectre crew were fairly good guessers, even if they didn't know his exact position.

Montag yanked his backpack out of a pile of leaves, slung the Rifle across his back, and ran for the safety of the beacon tower, dodging from cover to cover on his way.

Back at the beacon tower, the Marines were learning the difference between winning and having won.

They'd run down the southern ramp and found a sizable force of Covenant bruised and bewildered but pissed off and more than able to fight, having been protected from the brunt of the shockwave by the ramp. The Marines had slid off the other side of the ramp under suppressive fire and retreated to the mass of wrecked vehicles.

"Jonesy, use your cable gun to flip one of these Spectres!" Da Vega ordered. "Everyone else get ready to..."

At this point, Da Vega shouted something that might have been an order to duck, but could have easily had a different consonant at the beginning. The Covenant were coming around the ramp, and a blue hulk was trampling through the slower ones in its mad charge at the Marines. The second Hunter had yet to appear, and the body language of the first indicated that it wouldn't.

The Marines sought cover behind the Spectres and Wraiths that weren't on fire. Da Vega shot at a trio of Grunts and dropped down in time to avoid the blast from a fuel rod.

"Jonesy!" she shouted before realizing he was standing next to her. "Set up a trap. If we can't lure the Hunter in here, we're going to make a break for it!"

Outside, the Hunter had regained its composure and was shooting at the Ghosts surrounding the heavier vehicles, methodically destroying the Marine's cover. Within a minute, it had nothing to show for its effort besides four wrecked Ghosts and a squad of humans who were returning fire from behind relatively indestructible Wraiths. The way things were going, neither was doing the other much damage, but the Hunter was going to run out of ammo first. After this mental arithmetic was over, it charged the Wraiths.

When it rounded the hulk of two Spectres, it saw four Marines making a beeline for the northern side of the beacon tower. The sight of its escaping quarry enraged it. It charged its arm cannon up and stepped over a Ghost to get a better angle.

The ground erupted beneath its feet, and yellow flames momentarily made it airborne. It landed on all fours, sans arm cannon and critical pieces of armor. Whatever capacity for rational thought it once had evaporated. It got up and chased after the retreating Marines, not noticing the plasma bolts burning its unprotected back.

Kanoff quit firing the plasma cannon when the Hunter moved out of his line of sight. When Da Vega had outlined her plan, they worried that that Jonesy's last bit of C-12 wasn't going to do the job, even with plasma grenade boosters. Still, they'd counted on ripping enough armor off to give Kanoff a clear shot at the eels. But even the terrible firepower of the plasma cannon had failed to do critical damage.

Beside him, Jonesy clipped a remote detonator to his belt and hefted his multi-tool. "I'm going to try and flip a Spectre, we'll follow and-"

He was rudely interrupted when Montag dove through and shoved both of them to the ground. A score of plasma bolts swept their position shortly thereafter, coming perilously close to burning Jonesy's legs.

"They had a Spectre on patrol," Montag said lamely. He was covered in mud and wet leaves, and ash showed where near hits had been.

Jonesy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "You led them here, sir, you can lead them back out. Crawl under that Wraith, and there's a Ghost that's probably still working."

"What?"

"Everyone else is otherwise occupied. All the help we're going to get is when we help ourselves."

"Fine. Just take out that gunner when they drive by." Montag rolled over and slithered under the overturned Wraith.

"No promises, Montag," Kanoff said. "The whole trap thing has been pretty hit and miss today."

A few seconds later, there was the sound of a Ghost powering up, and the Spectre shifted fire. A quick peek revealed that Montag was pushing the hoversled for all it was worth in the direction of the Covenant's communications center. The Spectre gave chase, rounding the pile of hulks and exposing itself to the Marines in hiding.

Jonesy primed the cable gun on his multi-tool, took aim, and fired. A gas propulsion system integrated into the discarding sabot propelled the projectile to a speed that would embed it in a concrete wall at distances of up to 100m. The sabot fell away when its work was done, exposing a fin-stabilized tungsten carbide tip that punched through the gunner's rear armor and spine before the tip expanded. Epoxy oozed out of the base and dried in ten seconds, a feature intended to anchor the the tip in whatever it went through.

Jonesy hit the retract button, and the combined tug of the cable gun and the forward motion of the Spectre yanked the Elite off the turret.

To his credit, Kanoff got over his surprise fast. He dropped his plasma cannon, picked up his shotgun, and said "Well, I guess we can capture it."

* * *

**Northern Face of Beacon Tower, 1737 Hours**

The methane tent was more than a tent, more like a bunker with a forty Grunt capacity. The Grunts themselves were easy enough to deal with. Just shoot the first group of four that waddled out the airlock, and then the second. After that, the occupants got the message.

That left the gunless Hunter to deal with. Reasoning that the Hunter could outrun them, Da Vega shouted for everyone to take shelter in the sturdiest cover they had; the narrow space between the methane tent and the beacon tower. The space was wide enough to squeeze in sideways, and the walls of the tent were too steep for the Hunter to climb up. If the Marines crawled through and made a break for it, the Hunter would have to go around.

The Hunter punched the methane tent in frustration, and the gap widened by a few centimeters.

It looked at the methane tent for a second, sizing it up and ignoring the plasma splashing across its armor courtesy of June. To the surprise and dismay of the occupants, it backed up and got a running start before smashing the methane tent full-force, moving it a quarter of a meter and developing a rather worrisome rent in the side. Methane hissed out before being cut off by the self-sealing features.

The Hunter barely noticed. It didn't care if it died, so long as the Marines died with it. It punched the same spot again and again until the crack widened enough for methane to spill out.

"I thought we established," June said as she shot the cloud of methane with a plasma pistol. "That that won't work."

The methane roared and exploded, a wave of blue fire that enveloped the Hunter and raced back into the Methane tent with a dull thump.

No doubt the flames continued to burn inside, limited only by how fast air could pour into the tent or how fast methane could pour out. The Hunter was slightly cooked but all angry now, renewing its struggle to squeeze into the narrow walkway. June would have continued to pelt the monster with plasma bolts had Da Vega not grabbed her by the good arm and hauled her off.

Squeezing through to the other side was easy, thanks to the Hunter, and the Marines continued to run for the treeline. They would have made it.

A noise like a kettle whistling was rapidly overtaken by the now-familiar sound of methane catching fire. Although, and by now the Marines had enough experience to be auditory experts in the field of methane explosions, it sounded less like a thermobaric and more like a flamethrower. A great gout of yellow flame whistled out the crack made by the Hunter, rebounded off the beacon tower and went around each side and over the top of the Methane tent, seeking enough room to expand in accordance with the Combined Gas Law. The Hunter disappeared in the sheets of blue and yellow flame.

Dirkins and Liz saw an expanding ring of scintillating silver, the pressure wave moving through the grass and brushing off the rain water before it reached the Marines and bowled them over.

"What... the Hell?" June asked. She didn't get up, just let the rain cool her face off while the rushing sound in her ears died down.

"The methane tent probably has high-pressure storage tanks inside. The fire might have busted one open," her sister pointed out.

There was a lapse in conversation as everyone got up off the ground and brushed the mud and grass off their armor.

"Did that Hunter seem harder than normal to take down to anybody else?" Dirkins asked.

"Yeah," Da Vega pointed out. "We usually have anti-tank weaponry. Now let's go check up on the guys. They're either bored or found more trouble by now."

* * *

**Spinward Face of Beacon Tower, 1738 Hours**

Kanoff stood and cheered atop the downed Spectre, shotgun raised in both arms. It had been no easy task, boarding the vehicle at 30 kph, but his stunt had guaranteed transport for all of Sierra squad.

Montag nodded in approval and looked around the underside of the deck for the communications equipment. Making sure it was destroyed was the best policy, and that's why he saw the Zealot trying to surprise him from behind. Upon being spotted, the slightly disheveled Elite roared and charged. It survived the full brunt of the dual plasma cannons, leaped the remaining distance and landed on the hood of the Ghost. The attempted hijacking was cut short by a headshot from Montag's Handgun.

"Enough," Montag thought darkly as he parked the Ghost on the Zealot's corpse. As an afterthought, he liberated the dead Elite of its plasma rifle and shot it in the head a few more times.

Jonesy and Kanoff were still pulling the driver out of the Spectre when Montag caught up, still chatting about hijacking in video games.

"I don't know why they do it, but whenever somebody gets hijacking right in a game, next thing they have to do is ruin it. Remember the way they had it in Vehicular Manslaughter 13? First thing they added for the expansion was the button combination for overpowering the driver. Completely fouled up the game when you needed a fast getaway. You think we can wash the blood out of here?"

"Don't see what with," Kanoff answered. "Anyhow, I can see why they did it. You had to struggle with the driver in the Virtual Interactive ports, and that was such a huge hit that they tried it on the consoles."

"Making it yet another entry in the halls of 'mistakes made by confusing people who game for fun with people who game as a hobby.' If I want that, I'll shell out for mocap gloves and a visor... Something wrong, Montag?"

Throughout the conversation, Montag's expression only got sourer as he wiped the brains off the console. "You two are making me feel old. Last version of VM I played before enlisting was number seven."

"Ow," Jonesy said. He held up his hand when Kanoff tried to close the cockpit. "Leave it open. We'll let the rain wash it out or something."

"Once you two are done," Montag added. "Drive that thing up on the deck and stay watchful for any remaining Covenant."

"Didn't you get a headcount?"

"Yeah," Montag said, jerking his thumb at the wreckage under the deck. "But I'd hate to be on the lookout for four nonexistent Elites because we could only fine enough parts for sixteen out of twenty. So I'm going to assume that there's an entire platoon out there."

He turned to Jonesy. "If you're not familiarized with the Spectre, you have five minutes to do so before we move out. The explosion could've been heard from miles around, and it..." he checked the timer on his HMD. "Happened three-twenty minutes ago. I wanna get out of here before anyone comes poking around. Kanoff, you stick with Jonesy and watch for retaliation. When June relieves you of your post, help carry loot out of the beacon tower."

"Will do," Kanoff acknowledged. He climbed into the turret and watched Montag walk off in search of the rest of the squad.

"So, what, do we run and help if he finds his platoon?" Jonesy asked.

"As much as they'd need it, I can't really justify pitching in to help the Covenant."

* * *

**Northern Face of Beacon Tower, 1741**

"Ammunition?" Montag asked.

"Minimal," Da Vega replied. "We used almost all of it during the skirmish. What we've got left is for our sidearms."

"Alright, then plasma rifles and needlers are priority when we loot the tower," Montag ordered. "June, you replace Kanoff and man the Spectre turret. Everyone else, get the munitions out of the tower and onto the deck. We'll get the Spectre up there to shorten our supply line. I want us setting out in four minutes, thirty seconds."

Liz and June trudged for the Spectre while everyone else went for the northern ramp. Partway there, Montag turned and asked "Do we have any food left?"

Dirkins shook his head. "No, just the water purification tablets."

"Right," Montag said. The trip to the Pillar of Autumn would barely last a day, but fortune favors the prepared. "Da Vega, you go on ahead. Dirkins, if you don't have any plastic bags, ask Jonesy for some and meet me under the deck.

Dirkins did have bags, and he followed Montag to the crushed communications sets and power equipment. "So, can we eat the food the Covenant brought with them?"

Montag shrugged as he pulled an Elite out of the wreckage. "Well, from personal experience, I know that the plant-like stuff the Elites eat is edible, if you boil it long enough. I never tried the meat, but I hear it just needs tenderization and a thorough cooking."

Dirkins dragged another Elite out, looked it over, and searched the armor on the hips for utility pockets. "Wouldn't we find more food in their crates? Searching them one by one is a little..."

Montag already had the Elite's breastplate off and cut a diagonal slit in the skinsuit covering the chest by the time Dirkins had trailed off. "We don't have the equipment to boil food, Dirkins. Back on Siberia Prime, we figured how to cook meat on the run with plasma weapons. Easier that way."

"So, what about the meat the Elites carr... oh," Dirkins quit talking when he saw what Montag was doing.

"Chest, thighs, back, and biceps," Montag explained as he dug the knife into the Elite's underarm. "Enough meat to feed a squad for a whole day, if you remove the top layer and cook it right. Not enough meat on Jackals to justify cutting, Grunts are thoroughly inedible, and Apes require a hell of a lot of tenderizing. I know some guys who preferred the higher yield you get off Apes, but the extra time you spend sawing through the muscle is a tradeoff."

He cut along the muscle where he could, sawing across the grain where he had to. In the thirty seconds taken up by his running commentary, he had most of the flesh on the Elite's chest removed and folded. "What I need you to do is hold open the bag while I put it in, and press as much of the blood out as you can. The meat's kosher, but the blood will give you chromium poisoning."

Dirkins was on his haunches, leaning aback against a tottering crate and trying not to lose his lunch. He was staring at Montag with the same sort of bile fascination that drew people to car wrecks and circus sideshows.

"What?" Montag asked, uncomfortable at the way Dirkins was staring at him and genuinely confused. Why was a medic, who'd done an amputation on June and dicey surgery on Montag, getting nauseous at the thought of cutting apart animals? It made about as much sense as a Wahhabi pig farm.

"Haven't you dressed game before? It's like surgery-"

Dirkins lost his breakfast at that analogy, leaving a puddle of oatmeal-colored slime on the ground.

Montag grabbed him by the collar and pulled him away, silently fuming. With his luck, Dirkins was a vegetarian Buddhist; how cliched could you get? But despite himself, he found himself uttering reassurances and offering his canteen to Dirkins. "Wash out your mouth and take a drink. You know better than I do what to do for nausea, so follow your own advice and I'll get help."

He switched on his radio. "Da Vega, get down here with Kanoff, ASAP. Dirkins is having problems."

Help arrived in fifteen seconds. By that time, Dirkins had followed Montag's advice to take his own advice, and was lying down with his feet elevated.

"What happened?" Da Vega asked.

"He got sick when we were getting field rations. I need Kanoff to get him back to the Spectre, and I need you to help me with the food."

"Cutting up Elites. He's cutting up Elites," Dirkins rasped.

"Wait, _what?_" Da Vega shouted.

"Yeah, field rations," Montag replied as Da Vega rushed past him. "I don't see what the-"

Da Vega saw the Elite in question and spun around, fire in her eyes. "Explanation now, asshole! You've got thirty seconds."

There was an entire essay that could be read from those words, built upon the premise that Montag's actions required justification, with footnotes detailing her latent doubts about his leadership qualities and sanity, as well as an overall tone that suggested a wrong answer could be deadly.

Every shred of experience from Siberia Prime told him to reassert authority, get back in control of the situation by persuasion, intimidation, or coercion. With the third option being the last resort. Persuasion and intimidation worked the best, especially when used together.

What was the best argument? Experience? That he'd run a guerrilla resistance on Siberia Prime, and knew best how to keep infantry moving and fighting?

He felt his holster click; he'd drawn the Handgun. Immediately, Da Vega had her assault rifle at the ready. Not pointed at Montag, but close enough to send a message. She said she wouldn't let him pull a gun on another member of Sierra Squad, but was she ready to back her words up? Probably not; if she didn't have the heart to roll him off the Gondola when she thought he was unconscious, then she didn't have the conviction to kill him while he was awake.

If it came to it, he could easily kill Da Vega, and then Kanoff. The two were an item, Kanoff would react violently, an outcome to be prevented before he got over his shock. The rest could be coerced, they were all dead anyway.

"Montag, think this through," the Shadow urged. "You need them. If you kill them, you'll never make it to the Autumn alone. Don't turn your back on her, just diffuse the situation."

"Letting the gun do the talking for you? That's what you do when people say no?" Da Vega asked.

For someone whose chances of surviving the next thirty seconds were dependent on fighting not breaking out, Da Vega was mouthy. Montag tightened his grip on the safety, and then relaxed. Maybe this was all a misunderstanding, maybe it was the inevitable clash between two assertive people with opposite and incompatible worldviews. But part of Montag's philosophy, what he'd proudly called his Weltanschauung, was the inherent moral superiority of soldiers who'd taken up arms to protect Humanity, and he wasn't going to abandon it over a heated debate concerning their food sources.

He thumbed the release on the Handgun, waited for the magazine to hit the ground, and lowered the Handgun. "Can we talk this out like adults, or are we children?"

Da Vega lowered her assault rifle and held it sideways, so Montag could see that the safety was engaged. Since he hadn't heard her toggle it, the safety had evidently never been off.

"Ok, talk."

"We're out of food, and we don't know if we'll find some before we reach the Autumn. That could be days from now. Elite is edible, I know what to cook and what to throw out, and we've got it now. One in the hand is worth two in the bush."

"That's sick, Gui," Da Vega countered. "They're not our species, but they're sapient. Us eating them is no more justified than them eating us."

"_Bullshit!_" the Shadow screamed.

Montag concurred. "They're _animals_. They're imitators, they're monkeys. There's a fundamental difference between them and us, and you're trying to occupy a moral high ground that doesn't exist."

Da Vega was unfazed by Montag's tirade. "Cut them up all you want, Montag. I'm not helping, Jerry's not helping, Dirkins isn't helping, and I don't think Jonesy or the twins are going to be assistant meatcutters either. And if we do end up starving, you can have it all you yourself, because nobody else is having any."

"She's got that right," Kanoff muttered.

Montag thought it over, shrugged, and said "Fine. Let's get the Spectre loaded up and get out of here."

He walked alone back to the Elite, holstered the Handgun, sheathed the Knife, and retrieved the Rifle.

"Can't run an op without food," the Shadow mused quietly. "They're green, they're idealistic... and she's dangerous."

Montag found himself agreeing. Idealism was the diametric opposite of realism, and-

He shook his head. "Enough."

"Don't let her out of your sight. Like Sun Tzu said, keep your friends-"

"I said that's enough! I'm in charge here!"

The Shadow gestured at the two Marines helping Dirkins up the ramp. "No you're not. Not after that."

Montag walked around the Shadow to the Ghost and drove off.

* * *

**Beacon Tower Deck, 1748 Hours**

It was rather handy how the turrets for the Type 42s were self-anchoring. It wasn't magnetic, because the armor on the Spectre repelled magnets. But if you lowered the turret onto a flat surface, like the metal on the deck or solid dirt, a force would attract the base to the surface and keep it there until the turret was folded up or the operator pulled hard enough.

Jonesy took advantage of that fact to arm each of the sideseats with a plasma cannon, in addition to the passenger's own small-arms.

He was also good at knots, or at least insisted on tying down the loot. Needler ammo, spare plasma rifles and pistols, shield barricade generators, and an improvised rack to hold the Marine's backpacks were all tacked onto the vehicle and secured with carbon fiber cord.

"So, are you feeling well enough to drive?" he asked Dirkins. The answer was negative.

"Four seats and a Ghost, seven people. Somebody's going to have to double up on the side seats."

At this suggestion, Kanoff and Da Vega looked at each other, while Montag quietly drifted back to the Ghost. He sat down and tried to look nonchalant as he put both legs up over the hood, failed on both accounts, and gave it a rest. His nonverbal claim to the Ghost had been made.

"So, left side or right?" Kanoff asked.

"Doesn't matter," Da Vega answered. "Let's take the right side."

June pulled her camera out of her backpack and motioned for Montag to drive the Ghost in front of the Spectre. Liz, get Junior out and hold him up for the camera."

She set the camera down on an upturned crate, adjusted it so the arc of Halo was backdropping the Marines, and rushed to take her place. When the camera finished taking a rapid-fire series of pictures, Montag turned in his seat and started issuing orders.

"Ok, June, we're half a minute past due for leaving. If anyone blinked, edit it out later. Joensy, follow my lead, and try to keep that thing under cover. Everyone else, this'll be the last stop until this place is a distant memory. Understood?"

The Ghost flitted off across the deck and down the ramp, and the Spectre followed as soon as June retrieved her camera.

June twisted around and tried to take some last pictures of the beacon tower and the wreckage surrounding it, for all the good it did. The Spectre's levitation system provided an extraordinarily bump-free ride. Try as she might, June still struggled to sight through the camera and take a picture one-handed. She gave up when the trees and ridges cut off the beacon tower for good, and flipped through the camera's memory.

"Junk. Junk. Tree in the way. Blurry junk..." she muttered. "If I didn't have a missing arm for an excuse, it would be embarrassing."

Her sister settled in right next to her. Her backpack was unshouldered, and Junior had taken up his usual residence within its confines. Fortunately, as a cabin cat, he was used to sleeping for long periods of time in noisy confines, though the loss of his litter-box had been a new experience with novel and rather disturbing ramifications.

"Looks alright to me. Especially the group photo."

"You're being kind, Liz," June said. "The group photo looks like I put the camera down and walked off."

"That's what you did," Liz pointed out. She tapped on the camera's display screen. "The photographer and her squad, September 20th, outside a recently demolished Covenant base camp. Clockwise from gunner's seat, Private Kovan Dirkins, Private Elizabeth Ruth-Ford, Private First Class June Ruth-Ford, Private Jonesy, Lance Corporal Gui Montag, Private First Class Rosemary Da Vega, and Private Gerald Kanoff."

"OK, what's that all about?" June asked when Liz finished.

"That's how the caption will read in the National Geographic feature."

June looked over the picture, and decided that the absence of any blinking was a good sign. She thought for a moment, and then said "Thanks."

* * *

**Beacon Tower, 1809 Hours**

The winds had died down and the rain had let up since the Humans had left, or so the Jackals claimed. Exact dating of the time of departure from the temple would take some time.

Vlar 'Koalomee circled the pile of wrecked vehicles, counting out the number of Spectres and Wraiths. Lessons from the skirmish below the Sacrarium, and the Human's subsequent escape, were not to be ignored. The benevolence of the Forerunner had granted him this one chance to track the Murderer down, had spared him from the shame of another Legion intercepting the Humans and recovering the Docha Kandonom blade. He would resist the temptation to launch another wild attack.

Justice would be met out with a final, unrelenting blow only after the Human's capabilities had been carefully assessed, when their options had been reduced to what Vlar could counter.

He left the wrecked remains of the vehicle pen, idly wondering how a Human lance could have caused such destruction. The fewer of them there were, it seemed, the more resilient and resourceful they were.

Jackals and Elites with knowledge of hunting were pouring over the tracks left by the lance, trying to gather a cohesive picture of the battle that had taken place. Six Humans had charged out of the temple after the explosion had occurred, and then retreated into the protection of the burning vehicles.

A Mgalekgolo had charged the vehicles. A Human with oddly irregular bootprints (The Murderer? Had his footwear deteriorated from running over the molten glass?) had charged out of the cover of the trees, pursued by a Spectre. But which had happened first?

At the other side of the vehicles, the footprints of the retreating Marines were overshadowed by those of the Hunter, and the Marine's retreat ended at the crater that used to be a methane bunker. Did the lack of the brass leavings their weapons produced indicate they were low on their own ammo? How many perished in the methane explosion?

Vlar took care to avoid the prints, saving them for the ones who could interpret them. His long walk and longer musing took him to the bare remains of the Headquarters, with all the equipment smashed and burned by the explosion. In plain view was the corpse of Qvan Illionomee, Field Marshall and former commander of the Legion that had rested at this temple.

Vlar stood over the dead Zealot, mentally calculating its inadequacies as a field commander. Its abortive assault on the Human base within the Sacrarium had only inconvenienced the Humans and dwindled their ammunition supply. His criminal negligence had even aided the Humans, allowing a group no bigger than a lance to slaughter perfectly capable warriors with impunity and make off with transportation and heavy weaponry.

Had Qvan been spared and found by the Sangheili, he would have been crippled and blinded before being marched through the streets of his birth city until he collapsed in exhaustion. And then, the more conservative Dochas would stake him out in the middle of a barren field and leave him for the avian predators.

Vlar made a mental note to have the body quartered and left for the birds of Halo. Docha Illionom might see it at the favor it was, and repay the debt later. And yet the Human had the gall to visit the same killing blow upon the imbecile as the Field Marshal had recieved.

His musing was brought to an abrupt halt by the enraged wail of another Sangheili. Vlar 'Koalomee leaped over a smoldering power transmitter and ran to the source. A minor Domo was standing over the corpses of two warriors. The armor of one was removed, and the flesh on the chest had been cut and peeled off. It was no worse than some of the mortal wounds Vlar had witnessed on the battlefield, but all the more disturbing because it was so _precise. _Had that injury been what killed the Sangheili, it would have taken minutes for Fate to usher him away, and blood would have smeared the ground from his death throes. It would not be laid out as in a funeral, with its nearly prestine armor lying in a tidy pile.

"Miserable vermin!" the Minor Domo shouted to itself as much as to its rapidly accumulating audience. "Only savages mutilate the dead! What call for such sadism is there?"

Vlar had already turned away and made his way to the Spirit dropships up on the deck. When Creiva 'Dontaree caught up with him, he slowed and acknowledged his adjutant's presence.

"The Kig-Yar have concluded that the Humans have solely a Ghost and Spectre for transport," Creiva reported. He glanced at the Spirits. "Are we to mobilize?"

"No, I am returning to the Dauntless Courage," Vlar stated. "A defensive perimeter is to be set up all around the temple. I want a full inventory of equipment left here. Cross reference it with deployment records and Qvan's records of his battles with the Humans. He is sure to have lost much of the Prophets gifts, and I must know what the Human lance has stolen."

"Yes," Creiva replied.

"And order the Banshee pilots to return to the Human dropships they downed and destroy them completely. I don't want the Humans resupplying from the wrecks."

"Naturally," Creiva replied. "I have also ordered the mutilated body to be burned with honors. If the Humans wish to strike fear into us, it is best not to dwell into it and play into their hands."

"Wise, perhaps," Vlar allowed. "But I doubt that crime was mere sadism. Likely, they are low on rations."

Vlar nodded and boarded the Spirit, leaving his adjutant to fight off a wave of nausea and carry out his duties.

* * *

**River Delta, 1811 Hours**

"What are they doing now?"

Montag beamed a video feed to the rest of the Marines, panning the binoculars over the Pelican and the Covenant crawling all over it. Nearby, there was a Spirit and a Warthog, whose suspension had miraculously survived the crash.

"Just poking around. Looks like a general patrol, not the guys who shot it down."

He and Da Vega pushed themselves deeper into the ferns as a pair of Banshees flew overhead.

"Before we start, does anyone know how to fly a Spirit?"

The answer was universally negative.

"Fine. Then the focus is on stopping it from getting airborne, not capturing it. I'm going to sneak in and take them by surprise. You guys," Montag said, gesturing towards the Marines crouched around the Spectre hidden in the copse of trees. "Shoot down the Banshees. Jonesy, you drive the Spectre over to the Warthog and drop Liz and Kanoff off. Then everyone else rides around shooting anything not wearing UNSC standard issues. Questions?"

No one had any.

"Good. I want to get out of here in ten minutes."

* * *

**A/N: YES! YES! YES!**

**Longest chapter yet, typed up in less than a month and a half! A new record!**

**Well, this is also a milestone because a few of the elements in this chapter date back to ideas I had when I first started writing this story. And yet, some of those elements got changed the instant I started writing them to notebook paper. That's the way things go, I guess. An action scene or a device that you can picture perfectly in your mind gets hamstrung because... how do you explain it in English?**

**Well, if all goes well, "Holiday Spirit" goes up on the fifteenth of November, followed by the next chapter of Nightmare, and then Isolation.**

**And if anybody remembers that famous Patton quote referenced in the chapter title, have a cookie.  
**


	27. Ohms Law, Euclid, and Theoretical Ethics

**_The Fiend of Lublanska, a low ranking officer of uncertain identity (See notes on service records from the Siberia Prime Civil Defense Force) who, upon near-complete disintegration of the chain of command in Northern Metrograd, took control of disparate units and used them to wage a two month long reign of terror against the Covenant forces. This ended when UNSC forces reached his position and relieved him of command._**** These actions kept the Covenant from completely outflanking General Borislav's Autumn Offensive, though the ****_defenses were porous at best._**

_**As speculation about minor engagements would turn this book into a small library, I have not attempted to discern the actual deeds of the officer in question, though a good number of them are surely folklore and exaggeration. Sadly, chemical warfare was an unfortunate reality in the defense of Siberia Prime and this officer used it well, but tales of cannibalism and systemic butchering of Covenant corpses makes one wonder where truth got lost in Siberian folklore. The Siberians seem to elevate such psychopaths to the status of heroes, a rather vindictive mindset that seeks to compensate for the total destruction of their culture at the hands of the Covenant. One wonders why they don't blame the leaders who got them into that conflict instead.  
**_

_**The Fiend of Lublanska, incidentally, is the translation of the **_**Siberian_ name for this character, not a very flattering appellation. His identity is uncertain, but his apparent involvement_**_** in the **_**_abortive Zimá _**_**26 recovery operation indicates that he most certainly died on Siberia Prime.**_

_**Professor Jaines Khamisi, **_**The Grey War: The Covenant Invasion of Siberia Prime**_**, (Associated Publishers, 2575), p. 423**_

* * *

**1811 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
River Delta, 127 meters upspin from Pelican wreck  
Halo**

From the mountains of Halo poured steady rivers, which collected and lazily undulated across open plains. Lining the water's edge were reeds and trees, but less than a minute's walk brought one to the edge of the lush vegetation. There began the dryland grasses, as patchy and yellow fifteen meters from the water's edge as fifteen kilometers away.

Montag cut a handful and taped it to his arm with medical gauze, an improvised ghillie suit.

"I'd like to keep following the river if possible," he said. "But sooner or later, the Warthog will bottom out, so we'd have to drive along the trees, on the outside."

"Do you want to follow the river all the way to the Autumn?" Kanoff asked.

"Yeah, sure," Montag replied. "The Autumn crashed right next to a sea, right? This river probably leads right to it."

"Yeah, eventually. But small rivers in flat plains tend to double up on themselves a lot. In some places, it might be faster to head out across the plains."

"Alright," Montag said. "We'll get our bearings after we finish up here. But the longer we wait, the more likely that group is to torch the Pelican and walk off. So attack when I give the order."

He walked about twenty paces up the hill from the river, and then turned around.

"Are you watching closely?" he asked theatricality, tossing a rock from hand to hand. He threw it up, not high enough to be seen by the Covenant, but momentarily distracting Sierra Squad. When the rock and the collective gaze of Sierra Squad fell back to where Montag had been standing, there was nothing but scrub, rocks, and bush.

"Nice trick," Liz said.

"Thanks," came the reply over the radio. "I'm even better in concrete ruins."

"Where are you?"

"Up here, by the bush with half the foliage gone."

"I don't see it," Kanoff said.

"I'm waving at you guys."

The squad studied the arid landscape for a few seconds. Da Vega was speaking for the whole squad when she said "Of _course _you are."

* * *

**1821 Hours, Pelican Crash Site**

The Kig Yar carrying the antimatter charge from the Spirit had always been a flighty sort, always the first to join a phalanx in combat out of fear and desire for safety in numbers. It was known for panicking when splattered by the blood from a fellow Kig Yar or when its shield wore down.

Therefore, it is a tragedy that the idiom "Lost its head" was not a common one in the Covenant, for Sangheili appreciate irony just as much as any other sentient species.

The Sangheili in charge of the troops needed one look at the headless corpse to identify the work of a Human with a large-caliber weapon, a sniper. He barked an order for the troops to retreat to the Spirit, correctly reasoning that the Pelican could be destroyed from the air. The fact that he hadn't heard the shot was a fair indication that the sniper was a long distance away. The Kig Yar were useless; looting around the dropship's dead crew had filled their noses with the scent of Humans, and a sniper in the distance would be impossible to spot through their shields.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a Unggoy seize the antimatter charge, perhaps with a noble desire to arm it and throw it the rest of the way to the Pelican. It too stopped dead in its tracks.

The Sangheili sprinted the rest of the way to the Spirit, prepared to leave the others if they couldn't keep up. He was brought short when his left hoof kicked something he would have sworn was a rock if it hadn't flared his shields so. He hit the ground on his stomach, skidded, and came to a halt beneath the Spirit doors, face to face with the darkest of eyes sett in a burnished metal octagon.

The second-to-last thing that went through the Sangheili's mind was that the Human wouldn't need to be that far away if he was using the noise of the Spirit's propulsion field for cover.

The absolute last thing, of course, was a 750 grain bullet.

* * *

Montag rolled up and slung the Rifle across his back. If the Spirit's pilot heard the gunshot or started panning around with the turret, it would spot Montag before he could get the upper hand. The turret swiveled off to his left, but the pilot was clearly looking anywhere but under his aircraft. He pulled out both of his sidearms, ducked around the door and vaulted into the passenger deck. The Elite sitting at the controls was fast and had its plasma rifle up by the time the overcharged plasma bolt hit it square in the face.

Montag dropped the plasma pistol, raised the Handgun, and put a quartet of shots high on the alien's chest. As he kicked the dead body out of the pilot's chair, he idly wondered why the Elites would let the overcharge function be implemented in the pistols. Their energy shields let them win even if they didn't have the initiative starting a firefight, and it made them immune outside (and often inside) a grenade's lethal range. Hell, their shields were the sole reason they got away with ridiculously ceremonial embellishments to combat like charging into battle with swords. Why throw that away by fielding instant counters?

On the console before him, there were two joysticks. One was powered down and clearly inert, the other floated amidst a field of purple holographic tendrils. He grabbed the live joystick and was mildly surprised when it twisted until it was nearly vertical and uncomfortable to hold. One of the screens flickered to life, giving Montag a good view of 20 or so Covenant fanning out around the Spirit, forming clusters and phalanxes to defend themselves from the Marine-controlled Spectre strafing them.

Montag pushed the joystick forward, and the image zoomed in on a group of Grunts, identified with overlays of scripty purple sigils. He thumbed one of the less awkward buttons on the joystick, and the image was momentarily eclipsed by a reddish-purple blob that rapidly shrank until it collided with a Grunt, vaporizing its rebreather and scattering the groups like tenpins.

Montag pulled the joystick to the right and was surprised when the image moved in the opposite direction. The same thing happened when he pushed the joystick down to focus on a Jackal, causing him to curse the unintuitive controls. He began to press the button and fire blind, and decided that the little squiggly at the top of the screen was a recharge indicator.

He squeezed a button hidden in the contours of the joystick and the squiggly changed. Holding the trigger down now produced a steady stream of blobs, fired in threes. He was satisfied, for whatever the automatic fire lacked in killing potential, it made up with its ability to walk onto the target.

The Spirit shuddered from a hit from a plasma grenade, startling Montag. After a false start, he turned the turret around to fire on the Covenant who had thrown it, only to find that the dropship's doors blocked his shot.

He was safe from most of what they had out there. The contours of the Spirit's cabin prevented the Covenant from shooting him outright, but he suddenly noticed an electric blue light reflecting off the walls, accompanied by the frenzied screaming of a Grunt.

Montag bolted from the seat and raced out the other side of the Spirit, the Grunt screaming mostly untranslated curses at him, plasma grenade in each hand. Of course, he realized, he'd dropped the plasma pistol, his only recoilless weapon that could easily be fired on the run. The Rifle was empty, so he'd have to unsling it and reload it. The Handgun still had nine bullets left, but it had to be fired two-handed like the Rifle, and he'd have to turn around to fire it. That would have to wait until he'd put enough distance between him and the Kamikaze Grunt.

Montag went with option three. He turned on his radio, flipped to the general channel, and shouted to be heard over the Grunt. "Hey, guys, shoot the Grunt chasing me!"

Behind him, the Grunt took a deep breath before resuming its screaming.

* * *

**Spectre, 1811 Hours**

There'd been a horrendous scratching sound as the Spectre boosted through the thicket lining the river, but now there was nothing but the wind whistling by and the humming of automatic plasma weapons.

The plan had been for Jonesy to strafe the Spectre to the left in a semicircle around the Pelican, allowing the Marines in the sideseats to shoot at the Covenant unimpeded, while Dirkins would focus the turret on the Banshee.

In practice, driving a vehicle sideways was nerve-wracking, and shooting a plasma cannon straight while sharing a sideseat with someone else was impossible.

After shouting a brief warning, Jonesy stepped on the gas and raced to the Warthog, braking just long enough for June and Da Vega to jump off before continuing. June rushed to the Warthog's turret, climbed in one-handed, and stepped into place. Her injury didn't matter; the footpetals turned the gun and the trigger was ambidexterous.

"Hey, guys, shoot the Grunt chasing me!" her radio crackled. June looked around for Montag, and spied him running from a Grunt with two lit plasma grenades.

Da Vega started the Warthog and sped off like a jackrabbit. The turret automatically compensated as June lined up the Grunt in her sights and buried five rounds in its torso.

* * *

**Crash Site, 1827 Hours**

Montag studied the smoking hulk of the Banshees. Through the scope of the Rifle, he saw no movement save for the blue flames and electrical sparks.

As soon as the Marines had captured the Warthog, the fight had gone from uneven to entirely one-sided. The Covenant infantry were leaderless and cut off from the Spirit, and the Banshees suddenly found themselves under the combined fire of four heavy automatic weapons. One got partway through a strafing run and tried to kamikaze before blowing apart. The second fought for altitude to escape, but was still a kilometer inside the M41's effective range.

"We've got the place to ourselves," Montag said. "Let's finish up before that changes."

He singled out Jonesy while the Marines cleared corpses out of the Pelican. "What can you salvage from the Pelican?"

"Not as much as I'd like," was the reply. "Missile pods are above the ground, so they might have been untouched in the crash. The chin gun could be mounted on the Spectre easily, but it's not even worth digging up. So, just the rockets, seats, and equipment racks."

"Fine. Get Liz and Kanoff to help you remove the rocket hives. June," Montag noticed her pulling the memory chips out of the Marine's HUDs. "Keep doing that. Da Vega, bring up the Warthog; we'll see what we can get in it, kit the Spectre out later. And Dirkins, we still need food."

Montag glanced meaningfully at the pile of dead Covenant long enough to make the medic uneasy, and then he grinned. "MREs should be in the equipment racks."

If anyone thought that Montag had no sense of humor, they were dead wrong.

Plasma burns and soot covered the inside of the blood tray, and the crates had rolled around during the crash, though none had split open. Montag grabbed two cases of MA5C ammo and put them up on the seats.

"Everything we need," he told Da Vega. "Short of heavy machine guns."

He reached into an open crate, pulled out a defoliator, and smirked.

"Yeah, that's definitely you," Da Vega said. "Can't imagine why they'd haul off one of those rather than carry an extra passenger."

"Classic evacuation panic," Montag pointed out. "Lifeboats on the Titanic were lowered half empty, and people bunch up at closed exits during a fire."

"Because they can't get through?" Da Vega asked, half interested.

"Maybe. I took a class on this back on Siberia Prime, and statistically more people try to get out of closed exits than open ones in an emergency. I'm not sure if more exits are closed than open, or if they're nearer, but I guess the answer is 'neither.'"

"Hey," Jonesy interjected as he climbed into the Pelican. "I've got the other two working on the pods, and I'm going to try and get the seats out. I'll try not to take up too much room."

"Go ahead," Montag said. "We'll get out of your way in a sec."

"No need," Jonesy pointed out. "I can get them out over on this side."

He shoved some crates aside to get the seats on the starboard side of the Pelican, whistled, and pulled a jackhammer out of the debris. "Nice. We got ammo for this?"

"If there is, we aren't leaving without it," Da Vega replied, noting the carbon coating on the Pelican's bulkheads. She'd noted it and attributed it to plasma earlier, but she was wrong.

A few second later, she realized how desperate the Marines had been. Firing a rocket launcher in an enclosed space exposed everyone with you to backblast hot enough to severely burn skin, though the fact that you'd be choking on the fumes was of more immediate concern.

They continued to methodically retrieve the munitions, MREs, and medical supplies from the Pelican, which went faster once Kanoff, Liz, and June got done with their respective tasks.

"You're taking this along?" Kanoff asked, kicking the defoliator's crate.

"Of course. You never know when it'll come in handy."

Kanoff shrugged and continued to pack supplies into the bed of the Warthog. "I was just thinking, really, it's a lot for the Warthog to carry, isn't it?"

"We're going to drive a while, then hunker down and spend enough time as necessary to do the job right," Montag glanced at the leaden sky, seeking a patch of blue or purple in the clouds. "With any luck, we'll catch a break in the clouds and figure out where we are."

Montag stepped back, satisfied that the rest of the squad was loading the equipment well enough without his help. He meandered over to the Covenant, relieving them of needler ammo, grenades, and plasma weaponry. Once the ordinance had been neatly gathered into a pile, he dragged the Elite out from under the Spirit and into the aircraft's cabin. A Jackal was next, followed by two Grunts whose rebreathers had been thoroughly perforated.

"I'm almost afraid to ask," Da Vega said as he arranged a small hole in the mound of corpses.

"Charnel," Montag explained as he pushed a frag grenade into the hole. "The point is to force the Covenant to clean out the Spirit if they want to use it. If it's just a handful of corpses, they'll go for it. Now, see that icon on the dash?"

"Yeah, that's the ignition symbol on the Ghosts," Da Vega said warily.

Montag reached over, touched the panel, and extracted a small hexagonal prism from the dash. The console darkened and the Spirit settled on the ground. "Right. A brick of C-12 and a proximity sensor under the cabin should finish the job. Now, if you'll get outside..."

Da Vega's eyes widened as she backed out of the Spirit. Montag pushed the safety button on the grenade, squeezed the spoon, and dashed out after her.

Da Vega shielded her eyes from the carnage inside the Spirit and glared at Montag. He casually threw the key into the cabin and crawled under the nearest tine.

"What did you do on Siberia Prime?"

Montag stopped what he was doing, sat up, and met her gaze as well as he could with one eye. "Advance Recon, Mobile Sniper-Scout teams. We ran long-endurance operations behind enemy lines, feeding information ahead of armored strikes and sabotaging Covenant lines of supply. I'll admit up front that I was involved in PsyWarOps later in the conflict."

"Psychological warfare, like this?" Da Vega asked. She wasn't hysterical this time around, a definite improvement in Montag's books.

"Not always. Sometimes it was just shooting all the Elites we ran across and dragging off the bodies, sometimes it was launching Jericho sirens at Covenant positions, sometimes it was just showing them the true meaning of terror. A job like this, though, and one of my officers would have jammed the key in the pilot's eye, wired the ship to explode when it took off, and called it a day. In fact, I think that's exactly what she _did_ do."

"Now, you can go ahead and call me a monster. In fact, you even likened me to Hitler. Godwin aside, the man was a tactical genius who didn't completely go off the deep end until the July Plot-"

Da Vega finally made the connection to the conversation back on the Gondola, when they thought Montag was still under. "You _heard_ that?"

Montag grinned. "Seriously, rolling me off the Gondola while I was still asleep? Even for a guy like me, that's _cold. _But no, I'm not a monster. I'm just a guy who had one... bad... day." He tapped the bandage over the right side of his head for emphasis. "And that changed things. But I'm still a guy who does what he has to do to fight monsters."

"And you? You were all kinds of upset when I was cutting those Elites up, because you thought I was hurting Dirkins and you never gave yourself time to cool down. If you _really_ felt that strongly about treating animals like animals, you'd be browbeating me with misapplied morality right now. So, which is it?"

"Montag," Da Vega said, on the verge of exasperation. "You're an adult and you are, God knows why, just above me in rank. But I'm not having any part in this, and that was always my point. I could try to get the squad to try and leave you behind, but that would be counterproductive, and I don't think I can talk you out of this. So have fun. If you'll excuse me, stuff needs doing."

Montag watched her go, with the feeling that he'd just completely misread her. Not the first time, par for the course.

"Before you go," he asked. "What do you want to do about the dead-"

The rest was cut off by an ear-piercing bang and a gout of smoke billowing out of the top of the Pelican. Da Vega raced for the troop bay and quickly searched for a fire extinguisher. The bracket was empty.

On the outside, Jonesy already had it, and was spraying the contents into the burning hole.

"It's alright," he shouted. "Just an electrical fire."

After emptying the canister, he jumped down from the Pelican, grinned nervously, and said "We don't have to put the fire completely out, right?"

"Jonesy, no excuses or explanations, just tell us what happened."

Jonesy shot Montag the look common to people who realize they've done something incredibly stupid and have to explain. "The capacitor for the glow rods exploded and the cables caught fire when I hooked it up to a piece of Covenant armor."

Montag tried to process that, and failed. "Forget what I said. This sounds like something that only makes sense in context."

"OK, so I was trying to spot-weld the Pelican seats to the sideseats on the Spectre, and it wasn't working. And I notice that the section of armor I'm welding on is kinda warm all over. Not hot, just warm, and I'm looking at it and I notice that there are smaller hexagons inside the big ones and smaller hexagons inside those. So I wonder if those have anything to do with heat dissipation. I got the drill out, put two holes in the armor over a hexagon's border and stuck an ohmmeter in them. No resistance, although it's not the most sensitive instrument out there."

He took a deep breath, relieved that nobody had shouted for him to get to the point. "So, I found a piece that had been shot off the Spirit, opened up the reaction chamber in the Pelican, and hooked it up to the glow-rod capacitor and a series of resistors."

"What's that do?" Dirkins asked.

"Delivers several thousand amps when you start the Pelican up or suddenly accelerate," Jonesy replied. "Anyway, current equals voltage divided by resistance, so I was able to keep track of how much juice I was running through it, and I had a thermal probe to tell me if the heat was rising. It didn't."

"So, what caused the explosion?"

Jonesy shot Dirkins a look that indicated he was missing the obvious. "That hex grid in their armor? It's an extreme high-temperature superconductor! Superconductors transfer energy instantaneously, and are the same temperature throughout their volume. The armor is designed to withstand plasma; the purple stuff is probably a ceramic that reduces plasma to thermal energy and the hex grid spreads it out. And when you run too much electricity through a superconductor, it looses its superconductivity. They're usually lousy normal conductors, so when you run a lot of juice through them, stuff blows up."

"A superconductor running in the five-hundred degree range..." Montag mused.

"Yeah, and judging from how they use it, it's cheap," Jonesy said. "When we leave Halo, the armor on the Spectre is coming with us. Pay off our grandchildren's tuition."

Montag glanced at the clock on his HMD, scanned the sky, and then took charge. "OK, if there are no objections, we're going to load the Pelican's crew back in their bird, torch it, and make ourselves scarce. Jonesy, you're going to have to wait for us to stop to install the seats."

"I did," Jonesy insisted. "They're just duct taped into place."

Montag stared at the Spectre, or what he could see over the nose of the Pelican. "You did that experiment just because you had nothing else to do?"

"Not the way I'd put it."

"Fine. Next time you get bored, warn us."

The Marines trudged around the Pelican and began carrying the dead Marines into the Pelican. Montag, Da Vega, and Dirkins strapped them into the remaining seats, and Jonesy worked at puncturing the fuel tanks.

"Something I don't get," Liz asked him. "If you were measuring the temperature on the armor plate, why didn't you get blown up with it?"

Jonesy grinned. "I had the resistors hooked up in series, and was removing them one by one. When I was down to my last resistor, I was effectively doubling the current through the armor section. I knew something was going to happen then, if at all."

Liz watched as he finished removing the ceiling panels and exposed a bundled wiring harness leading along the long axis of the Pelican. "So, the fuel for the Pelicans is stored in two fuel tanks. Double armored and self-sealing against anything smaller than 20 mike-mike."

Jonesy brushed aside a braid of fiber optics and pointed out a small device projecting from the smooth surface of the tank. "The exception is the instrument cluster. Of course, the tank walls are thicker around it to compensate, but if the cluster itself is torn off, the Pelican is probably screwed to begin with. It's your fuel gauge, thermostat, pressure sensor, and in-tank contaminant filter."

He inserted an Allen wrench into a recessed bolt, unscrewed it, and showed the gleaming aluminum rod to Liz. "Clean as a priest's sheets. Either this is a new bird, or the Autumn's crew took good care of her."

Liz handed the cylinder back to Jonesy, who tossed it into the far reaches of the Pelican's inner workings. "I thought you worked in Construction, not Maintenance."

"As much as I could," Jonesy replied as he squirted C-12 into the hole left by the filter. "I used to sneak into the garage when I was off duty, work on Warthogs, Pelicans, and Hornets. But then I got transferred to work on Pelicans full-time, and you know what makes hobbies fun?"

"They aren't your job."

"Exactly. Working on them full time took all the fun out of it."

"We're ready whenever you guys are," Montag said from the ramp of the Pelican.

"We are," Jonesy replied. He pressed a detonator into the C-12 foam, set it for sixty seconds, and dropped a lit signal flare on the deck.

Outside, three vehicles hummed to life. The fully laden Spectre took point, followed by a Warthog and a lone Ghost, riding through the scrub toward the cover of the riverside. Behind them, never to be seen again by human eyes, the Pelican became a funeral pyre and a silent tomb at once, a short-lived memorial to the Marines inside.

* * *

**Forest valley, 1843 Hours**

Dry plains gave up to grassland, which in turn gave up to wooded hills. As the clouds thinned, Montag signaled for a halt.

"I'm going to figure out where we are," he said. "Jonesy, if there's anything you need to do to the Spectre or Warthog, do it now or forever wish you had. June, Liz, help him. Everyone else, set up a perimeter."

He left the squad behind, looking for a spot that gave him a decent view of the opposite side of the Ringworld through the trees. He found one where a large tree had fallen, long enough ago for wildlife to strip off the bark and the smaller branches. Montag stepped onto the trunk, over the Shadow, and down onto a bed of needles.

"What's the difference between doubt and fear?"

Montag lay down on his back, activating the scope feed on his HMD and delving into the display/metrics options. When he was finished with the settings, the Rifle's scope was displaying elevation above the horizontal.

Looking at the far side of the Ringworld, Montag tried to hold the Rifle in a perfectly vertical position, and then called up the pictures he'd taken back atop Beta base. He studied them and looked for the splotch of green that was probably a lowland forest. It was .01 degrees from vertical. Dead reckoning put the Marines less than 60 klicks from the Autumn as the artillery shell flies.

Two hours driving, keeping a low profile, and then it would be brought to a head. He could ask for volunteers, people willing to destroy the Autumn with Montag, and die with it. The number in Sierra Squad willing to die was at a psychologically healthy low, though. Hell, Kanoff, Da Vega, and Jonesy were actually talking about getting off the Ringworld and making plans for what comes after. The number of members in Sierra Squad willing to blow the Autumn's reactors and condemn the rest to death? Nil.

Do only what's necessary.

Doing more than what is absolutely necessary is a waste, if not a crime.

Doing less was dereliction of duty.

The Ringworld had to be destroyed to deny it to the Covenant. As a monument to Humanity. As a funeral pyre for Montag.

He couldn't kill a fellow Marine. They were human after all, they were the ones actually fighting for the preservation of the Human species.

The contradictions ricocheted around Montag's head, backing up against his wall. Each step he took toward the Autumn pushed him closer to having to make the final decision, and he couldn't. Not chained to his doubts and fears as he was.

"Order them to do it."

It was a statement as divorced from reality as the Shadow was. Too divergent from reality to be funny. Montag leaned up against the log, getting comfortable.

"Take them aside. Speak to them frankly, and explain why sacrifices need to be made. If they really are soldier material, they'll understand."

The Shadow was crouching on its knees, one arm steadying it against the log. It was defined, bulky, the shape of its lower body concealed beneath what could have been an overcoat. If Montag had seen someone backlit by a searchlight, it wouldn't look much different. If Montag had met the shape in the darkest of alleys, he wouldn't want to.

Montag averted his eyes. Sierra Squad, or at least the members present, had refused point blank to harvest, store, or eat the C-rations. They'd opted to hold out for MREs, even without any foreseeable event where they'd find some. Locating the downed Pelican had been sheer luck.

"Then that's already a strike against them, isn't it?"

"Rulers," Montag whispered. The old question of how a ruler knows it measures fifty centimeters, and not fifty one or forty. You compare it to other rulers, and it might be accurate even if it doesn't agree with the others. But the alternatives had to be considered.

"That's _not_ where you want to go, Montag," the Shadow scoffed. "Either you're a psychopath who retroactively justifies his actions, or you're the sanest man on the Ringworld. Sane, because you see what has to be done, you do it, and you have no illusions about it!"

But that was it, wasn't it? He thought he had a handle on the illusions and hallucinations. What if he didn't? What if his creed was just another form of insanity?

"Hey, Montag, you doing alright?"

Montag looked over his shoulder. Dirkins was crawling across the log, a medical kit under one arm.

"Yeah, I'm just figuring out where we are."

"How are you going about that?"

Montag pointed up through the hole in the forest canopy. "Way on the other side of the Ringworld, there's a peninsula with a large, sandy beach and a small clump of forest in the middle. That was diametrically opposite from Beta Base. Now it's a few degrees offset."

Montag pointed up with both hands. "Imagine I'm pointing at that peninsula and at the spot directly opposite from us. The angle between my arms is Theta. The angle between the two points, as observed from the center of the Ringworld is Beta. The relationship between Beta and Theta is the inverse tangent of the sine of Beta divided by the cosine of Beta plus one."

"So, you find the arc length we've traversed by multiplying Beta by the radius of Halo. Smart," Dirkins remarked, having taken intermediate calculus courses while studying medicine. "Except that formula gives you Theta, not Beta."

"Yeah, I'm just going to plug it into a calculator," Montag admitted. "I could derive the reverse formula, but I really don't want to go to all that work."

Dark clouds, indistinct and uniform, began encroaching on the patch of clear sky.

"That's not good."

"Yeah," Dirkins said. "As if our journey wasn't stop-and-go enough."

Montag got to his feet, and walked back the way Dirkins had come, wondering whether they should find shelter or keep going.

"How's your bandage?"

Montag unclipped a square plastic card from the gauze and handed it to Dirkins. Dirkins glanced at the colored bars, noted that the bandage was dry and the wound underneath was hot but not dangerously so, and handed it back. "You're taking care of yourself. Good job."

"Hey, doc," Montag said, motioning for Dirkins to stop. "I want to ask you something. Da Vega asked me some very pointed questions about my career, and the only place she could have heard about them is from my medical files. From you. Did you volunteer, or did she ask first?"

"Yes," Dirkins said succinctly.

Montag stifled an exasperated curse. "There's no details in those files, right? It's just where I was shot, who dug the bullet out, and who gave me my vaccines, right?"

"No, there were quite a few riders and annotations. Somebody left their research in there when you were on trial for war crimes in San Lorenze."

Montag shrugged indifferently. "So, you know I didn't do anything illegal. I went in there, provided rooftop coverage for my company, and took a seven-point six two to the kidney."

"You never did anything illegal because of your lousy marksmanship," Dirkins countered. "You_ clearly _weren't firing anti-materiel rounds into a crowd of civilians intentionally, right?"

"No. Those weren't civilians. Those were people who were shielding Innies with their own bodies. That makes them Innies themselves, that made them enemy combatants. I'm sorry they thought I wouldn't fire on unarmed irregulars, but war is Hell."

"Forget about it," Dirkins said. "You never did anything to me. You're probably what I was brought up to shun and call evil, and people would probably call me a monster for patching you up, but it's my job. My only complaint is that you don't take care of yourself."

"What about the C-Rations?"

Dirkins blanched. "You don't take care of yourself, _and_ you've got a snowball's chance in Hell of me ever trusting you with rations again."

Montag grinned. "Then we know where we stand with each other."

"So, Da Vega is the one who came to you with problems?"

"Yeah, she told me. She's not from San Lorenze, is she?"

"No, she grew up on Ministrel. That would be too much of a coincidence."

* * *

**Forest, 1922 hours**

Montag had no clue what the maximum range on a Ghost was. What he did know was that it was getting shorter every minute.

Driving vehicles through a forest was surprisingly hard, for someone who'd never done it before. The ground changed elevation and slope without warning, and the trees could easily surround oneself and force him to back out.

Montag scouted ahead with the Ghost, it being the narrowest and the most nimble. It also had powerful plasma cannons that could saw down trees with enough effort. The Warthog followed, barely wider than the Ghost but prone to catching on trees and logs. The Spectre followed, widest and the most ungainly.

"I really don't like the looks of those clouds."

"Squall coming?"

"Cloudburst. Isn't a squall nautical?"

"Maybe. I vote we head for those sky beams, wait the storm out in a beacon tower."

"Which way?"

"Cut the chatter!" Montag ordered. The blue energy tendrils beneath the Ghost vanished, and the hovercraft hit the ground. He motioned for everyone to follow suit. A few seconds later, the forest was silent save for the wind in the trees and an intermittent series of explosions far away. Nobody could tell which direction it was coming from.

"Sounds like a Katyusha," he remarked. "Maybe a Missile Hog or Wolverine attacking a fortification. Don't think either were on the Autumn's roster."

"Could the Covenant have a Flak Wraith?" Liz asked.

"Best explanation I can think of," Montag replied. "If it is, I don't want to get committed to a position. For now, we stay mobile."

Nobody could argue with that. Nobody but the rain.

* * *

**Beacon tower, 1927 Hours**

Visibility was cut to thirty meters, possibly further if the enemy attacked with glowing armor and weapons. The raindrops were fat, rattling the vehicles like hail and soaking the Marines to the bone. Montag had set the squad off in the direction of the beacon tower, their course corrected every once in a while by a diffuse flash in the distance.

He loathed that choice, but the absolute best-case scenario if they continued on would be that Dirkins would have to treat a few of them for pneumonia. The more likely worst-case scenario would be that they would get separated and run into a Covenant patrol.

Finally, the tower appeared out of the rain. Montag parked the Ghost under the cover of the upper deck, followed by the Spectre and the Warthog.

"Everyone, keep the vehicles prepped. I want to leave the minute we smell danger."

"Hey, Montag?" Jonesy pointed out to a smaller structure. "That one looks like it has walls. Better cover for the vehicles."

Montag squinted through his HMD, night vision cloaking everything in muted colors. "Thank you, Jonesy. Go check it out, see if there's shelter."

Jonesy muttered something to the tune of "No good deed goes unpunished" and ran out into the rain. Montag quickly began mapping out sentry positions when Da Vega caught up with him.

"I don't like this. We're too easy to find."

"I don't like it either. If it looks like it's going to let up in five minutes, we're out of here." Idly, Montag wondered if she was kvetching or if she had a better idea. Most likely option three: She was staying close to keep an eye on him.

"How am I doing?"

Da Vega shrugged. "Common sense approach, haven't been giving orders at gunpoint. My only complaint is that I'd keep pushing toward the Autumn."

_'If only you knew the full story,'_ Montag thought darkly. "From experience, it's a mistake to push through inclement weather if you don't know the terrain, especially with a group this small. And about the gun... you were defending the shipyards on Reach, right?"

"Initially, yes. In the first week, we were reassigned to evacuation aid, and then recalled."

"Right. I was all over the place. Reach was... a symbol. It was for everybody, that monolithic presence that promised we would never lose to the Covenant, that Humanity was still strong. And at the end of the day, Reach was just a string of failures that showed how blind we were."

"So, you point guns at people when you're in a bad mood?" Da Vega asked pointedly.

"Am I ever going to live it down?"

"That's the difference between forgiveness and forgetting."

Jonesy walked out of the rain, thoroughly drenched and rather sour. Junior quit grooming himself long enough to give Jonesy a look over, and then resumed.

"There's room over there. Dry room."

"Good," Montag said. "Get Liz and Dirkins, and get the vehicles over there. Kanoff, go up to the upper deck on the tower, get beneath one of the tines, you've got sentry duty. Da Vega, June, we're going to do a little exploring. See if this tower is connected to the structure over there."

Everyone set out on their respective tasks, the vehicles powering up and moving out into the rain while three Marines moved into a doorway sunken into the side of the tower. The doorway led downward at a steep angle before leveling out and terminating in a door. It should have been full of dirt and leaves that had blown in; their absence was a testament to regular maintenance.

Below, the room was nondescript. Nondescript in that it was full of the bizarre alien geometries and architecture that may have been ornamental for all the Marines knew. There was a row of segmented columns that would have been wonderful stand-ins for an experimental reactor or computer database in an action movie. The row terminated in a chasm crossed by two bridges, and a ramp could be seen on the far side.

"Friendly enough," June remarked.

* * *

**Upper Balcony of the Beacon Tower, 1930 Hours**

Kanoff was wrapped in a waterproof blanket, slowly panning across the forest with his binoculars. Night vision and infrared didn't penetrate the rain that well, but it was better than the bare eyes.

"See anything?" Montag asked.

"Yeah," Kanoff replied. He handed the binoculars to Montag. "Due spinward, downhill of us."

Montag fiddled with the binoculars, trying to look through them when gauze covered a quarter of his face. "What am I looking at?"

"Flash flood taking the path of least resistance. We'll have to look out for that when we continue on."

"How dangerous?"

"In the vehicles? I'd rather face a quartet of Hunters."

"Right, then. We'll have to stick to high ground."

"It's the most we can do," Kanoff remarked. "How was the grand tour of the Hilton?"

"Nice enough. Your girlfriend is down there waiting to show you around."

Kanoff got to his feet and pulled a small coffeepot from his backpack, which he left in the rain. A collapsible plastic funnel went over the mouth to improve collection. "Hold down the fort, will you?"

"That's what I'm here for," Montag replied.

When Kanoff was gone, Montag continued to survey the forest around the tower, stiff as a statue, his various head wounds throbbing. The wind shifted, blowing rain on him for a few moments before turning away. He bowed his head, letting the water drip off his face. It was cold, leaving his skin clammy...

_The gas masks they'd been issued made the soldiers look like rats. Beady eyes and long filters over the mouth, supposed to be intimidating. Query whether the Covenant had time to be frightened when chemical weapons were burning their lungs out. For his part, Montag wished that their equipment had better insulation. Cold plastic on his skin was distracting._

_Five days ago, his orders had been to infiltrate the southern Sinoviet Company Apartment Complex and prevent Covenant transit through the area. The streets outside were choked with rubble and the burning hulks of tanks, patrolled by Banshees and Reaver wolfpacks. The only way to advance was to fight for each room and hallway, through rubble and dead bodies._

_Montag glanced at the ceiling, where crumbling sheet-crete heralded the presence of the enemy. He rolled to his feet, skittering across the room like a rat. The rest of the squad, what was once a platoon, followed._

_The order to fall back had been given yesterday. The rest of Mirsky's company had outstripped Montag's platoon, disappearing into the fog of war created by the Covenant jammers. Montag was navigating by the internal compasses on the soldiers' electronics with the help of Demidov's Battlenet, but only when they were close enough to an intact network node. It was anyone's guess as to what the Covenant were using._

_Montag scuttled out the door and down the hallway, back to the wall, followed by fifteen more soldiers. Maybe it was because they had little more than meat for the past five days, maybe it was the effect of two hours of sleep per day for the past month. They all moved like cockroaches, like any animal whose existence depended on darting from shadow to shadow._

_No food, save for what they could kill. Low on ammo, with some of the soldiers reduced to fighting with entrenching tools. Covenant weren't quite as bad with their rations, but there were plenty of Elites running around with plasma pistols they'd taken from their underlings. It was so bad, Montag was sure he'd seen suicide Grunts sharing a plasma grenade._

_The squad ducked into a room, what had once been an upscale apartment. The food pantry in the kitchenette was empty and ajar, and the other half of the room was a smoking crater where the fridge used to be. What with the Humans and the Covenant both laying traps, it just didn't pay to scrounge around._

_Once everyone was inside, Montag dropped a camera the size of a pen outside the door, facing the stairwell. If any Covenant came down the stairs, Montag would see it on his HMD._

_Petrol caught Montag's eye, pointed up where the enemy lance was, and rubbed his stomach. The joker._

_Montag hefted his flamethrower and spoke quietly into the radio. "Petrol, I want two holes in that wall when I give the green light. Everyone else, hold fire. Rozi, cover the door."_

_Montag turned the camera feed on in his HMD and activated the pump on his M7057 flamethrower. The hallway, the whole building in fact, was dark, and he could only make out indistinct shapes. But the glowing plasma weaponry told him all he needed to know._

_Behind him, Rozi Spasskaya set the bipod for the Riveter Heavy Anti-Materiel Rifle down, checked her ammo, and gave a green acknowledgment light to Montag. The 7.62mm bullets, fired with a velocity of 2,400 meters per second, would chew through any cover the Covenant cared to use. In close quarters, it was overkill._

_Montag activated the pre-igniter on his flamethrower, paused, and nodded at Petrol. Petrol leveled his shotgun at a section of the wall and fired, blowing a hole clean to the other side. Montag docked the tip of the flamethrower with the hole and pulled the trigger, like filling a car at the propane station. On the other side, the enemy's shouts of surprise were drowned out by the roar of the flames._

_Petrol blew another hole open, and the sound of crumbling sheet-crete was echoed by the sounds of the rest of the squad breaking an egress into the opposite side of the room. Montag bypassed Petrol and ran for the door, reasoning that it was more important to stop the Covenant from retreating towards the Marines. He stepped over the remains of the door, rounded the corner..._

_And thumbed the emergency stop for the flamethrower's pump._

_Something ran past the door and down the dark end of the hallway. Something shrieking loud enough to be heard over the roaring flames. Someone Montag's HMD identified and tagged as 1st Lieutenant Gregor Orteza._

_Suddenly, what little scent of burning gasoline and roast pork that got through his mask overpowered Montag. He ducked back into the room and stumbled to his knees, desperately seeking fresh air._

_A patrol. They'd just torched on of their own patrols. Everyone had their IFF tags off to avoid detection. Had Orteza been as lost as Montag's group was? It was stupid. Asinine Orteza, letting his troops carry around Covenant weapons in this tight urban combat. And Montag, he realized, he should have looked harder, waited for positive identification._

_Petrol looked up from his task of removing Corporal Spasskaya's vomit-filled gas mask and met Montag's eyes. He had the look of a man who had just realized how lost he was._

"_What did we just do?"_

Montag opened his eyes. Slowly, the broken concrete he was sitting on morphed into the alien metal of the beacon tower. The caked blood and dust on his hands were just his gloves.

He could feel regret over Orteza, even if it had been friendly fire. Just like he felt regret over Hopkins, or Hans. He winced as he remembered that, how he'd left Kantorek out in the battlefield with every honest intent of coming back to get him. The point is, he'd been friends with the two of them. Even grew up with Hans. And even though Orteza had been like a paper cut that wouldn't go away, Montag could feel some regret over his death, because he'd been responsible. Cut through the scab of excuses and justifications and the emotion was real. The serial killer analogy he'd thought of hours ago was false.

As Montag resumed panning through the forest with binoculars, Kanoff and Da Vega showed up.

"Enough water for three people," Kanoff remarked, looking into the coffeepot. He poured some out, added a small fuel cell to the base and turned the power on. "Rain hasn't let up, has it?"

Montag shook his head. "Got worse. Whole Ringworld of Covenant are after us, and you're taking time off to make coffee?"

"Tea. Regular black tea," Kanoff replied. "And we aren't going anywhere in this weather."

Montag shrugged. He'd never seen a flash flood before, so he was relying on Kanoff's judgment. Should the Covenant find them, the plan was to scoot. But Montag couldn't go on. Not yet.

"So," Da Vega said. "You said you did PsyWarOps on Siberia Prime? What did that entail?"

Montag quickly tried to puzzle out how to present his involvement, before deciding he was here to bare the truth. No dissembling, no doublespeak. "We, the scouts, were lumped together with PsyWarOps after we took casualties and were reorganized, because it seemed like a good idea at the time to combine a nimble strike/recon force with one that dealt in fear. We adopted the motto 'Show them the true meaning of terror.'"

Kanoff turned the heater off and poured three cups of hot water, to which he added tea bags. "Go on."

"So, we combined nimble strikes into the rear with what was frankly terrorist activity. Sometimes, we'd strike a communications booth and dismember the crew. Sometimes we'd follow up gas attacks by beheading corpses or hiding bodies. Sometimes, we would run around, repair the public address speakers so the propaganda broadcasts could continue. And then, we did stuff like taking an Elite alive so his torture could be broadcast over those same speakers."

Montag sipped his cup and left the teabag in. "You know, the kind of stuff we'd have been put on trial for if we were fighting other humans."

Kanoff and Da Vega stared at their tea, their stomachs suddenly feeling like cold stones. Da Vega was the first to speak. "So... did it work?"

"Yeah. We saw more suicide cases on the Covenant side, they wasted more resources on larger patrols, and we were usually able to get a lot of them to retreat by blaring Wagner or Atlin or some other music you'd invade Poland to. We didn't save Siberia Prime. That was beyond us, but we definitely left a dark impression on the aliens."

"OK, so we established that you view Covenant as animals. What about fellow humans?"

"Humans are humans. I might hate Innies, but they're preferable to aliens. There were times on Siberia Prime when we couldn't afford basic human dignity, but we always made the effort to recover bodies. You... you can understand that we were being pushed, right? That the goal of safeguarding the citizens and showing the Covenant the true meaning of terror were so entwined, it was hard to separate one from the other?"

After a long silence, where Da Vega and Kanoff met Montag's eye, he took a long drink and emptied his cup.

"To tell the truth, I guess I'm proud of myself. I had to keep taking on larger roles, getting brevetted up the ladder because my superiors were killed and the chain of command was disintegrated. I stepped up to it, even though I was never trained for it, and I was the guy in charge while everything slowly went to Hell. Covenant couldn't glass us because of _Zimá_, but all that meant was that our forces dug in, got close to their forces and shredded each other like two drowning men."

"Wait, you mentioned _Zimá_ before. What was that?"

"Ground based defense, prevented glassing. Covenant were forced to assault the _Zimá_ train convoys and dismantle the subways with infantry."

"The Covenant couldn't glass? How did that work?"

Montag grinned. "Simple."

* * *

**Assault Carrier 'Dauntless Courage', 1920 Hours**

The Shipmaster was not waiting for Vlar 'Koalomee when the Spirit docked with the Dauntless Courage. Instead, there was an honor guard of officers waiting for him. As he disembarked, Vlar realized that they could have been ordered to escort him to the brig just as easily as they could be ordered to escort him to the Shipmaster's quarters. No one had been told of Mortumas 'Kandonomee's death, but the Shipmaster may have deduced the truth from Vlar's noncommittal battle reports.

To his great relief, they led him to the quarters fore of the bridge, the traditional space reserved for the Shipmaster, if a Prophet was not on board.

As he kept pace with his escort, Vlar took time to admire the interior of the assault carrier. It was a newer ship of the fleet than the carrier he had come to Halo upon, the styling much more modern. Also in its favor, it hadn't been converted to hold several legions equipped for excavation security. It had, instead, followed the Human ship to Halo from the Human stronghold-world, and its bays were filled with true weapons of war.

When they reached the Shipmaster's quarters, one of the officers indicated that he was to go in alone. Nervously, Vlar conjured up a dozen scenarios where the Shipmaster might prefer solitude in order to quietly murder his guest, each more unlikely than the last. With a mental shrug, he dismissed the possibility and entered. Shon'ai. Fate favors the bold.

The heat and humidity struck Vlar like a physical blow when the door opened, which he expected. The Shipmaster was, after all, a 'Kandonom warrior.

Vasai 'Kandonomee stood beside a podium, helmet and gauntlets removed. Behind him a great holographic recording of a battle over the Human stronghold-world of Reach was paused, annotations half-finished. The implied message was that Vasai found Vlar 'Koalomee, or who he represented, important enough to set his work aside and greet him. The subtext was that Vlar had better not waste the Shipmaster's time, whatever he was here for.

"Learned disciple, Vlar 'Koalome, what task brings you here? Last I met Mortumas, you were more than a mere courier. My kin would have sooner cut off his right hand and sent it to deliver messages."

Vlar, to his credit, did not betray his unease. His mentor's distaste for flattery, giving or receiving, unfortunately did not extend to the rest of his clan. "I offer my apologies for my haste, Shipmaster 'Kandonomee. My errand demands a great deal of discretion. You trust the warriors outside, but you may prefer to hear me in solitude."

A lesser Sangheili might have paused, unnerved by the implications. Instead, Vasai locked the door and darkened the hologram. "What ill news have you brought over my threshold?"

No longer backlit by the hologram, the cause of the Shipmaster's gravely lisp was revealed. His face was a patchwork of scars that grew denser around his mandibles, an injury from a nearly mortal blow to the old ship under his command, when the war with the Humans was still young.

"Mortumas 'Kandonomee is dead," Vlar said. "His body is in stasis, for you to reclaim."

Vasai stared at Vlar wordlessly, rage building in his eyes. No sooner had Vlar finished than he pulled his sword from his side, threw it to the ground, and cried in anguish.

"What of his body? Is it stained with the blood of his enemies? Is it riddled with human bullets, a testament to his last stand?"

"No," Vlar replied. "It was a lone sniper who killed him in his moment of triumph, with a clean shot through the head."

"Yes," Vasai replied. "The foreheart of our Docha, who our council decreed would champion the clan's name, visited by Death. The Harlot has indulged her sense of humor too much."

"We can mourn Docha 'Kandonom's loss later," Vlar replied. "The sniper made off with the Docha blade."

The room, humid and hot enough to make the walls sweat, now seemed as cold as the northern reaches of Sanghelios. In the founding of the Covenant, when the Writ of Union was presented to forge the bond between San Shayu'um and Sangheili, the largest of the loyal Dochas had been granted blades that Forerunner Warrior-Servants had used in ceremony and combat. As symbols of the Eternal Union, a binding covenant that the Sangheili would always be the arm of the Prophets, the Docha blades were carried into battle in times of strife and presented in ceremony during times of peace.

"The sniper killed the Field Marshal from afar and then plucked the blade from his hands," Vasai muttered. "Perhaps the murderer ran upon the wind?"

"If you doubt my word, you can interrogate my witness, the bodyguard of Mortumas 'Kandonomee. Though unless you know an outcast who walks amongst the graves and speaks to the spirits, the conversation will be quite one-sided." Vlar's humor, Mortumas had once noted, thrived upon tragedy. "But perhaps you would prefer to hear the story from the anguished shrieks of the murderer in question?"

"Don't boast what you cannot deliver, student. Snipers are a cowardly lot, rarely seen and oft retreating. Perhaps that is why Kig Yar have taken to it."

"This sniper seems chronically incapable of simply slipping away," Vlar responded, careful to keep the wry humor out of his voice. "It leaves a path of destruction as wide as the Path we walk upon. He topples a tree with the Docha blade to crush a Spirit. When Mortumas's bodyguard caught up with the sniper, he was dismembered with the Docha blade and then savaged with a knife. Finally, where it emerged from the Foundations of Halo, the murderer left a mountain of corpses, some gutted as if it had cut them up for food and been interrupted in his task."

Vlar didn't pause his monologue, but he was relieved to see Vasai 'Kandonomee listening.

"The murderer is cut off from the main group of Humans, with only a small lance to escort him. I can kill them and bring its body to you for proper reparations, but I need weapons. Mortumas's Legion is willing, but outfitted for leisurely strolls across an archeological dig."

Vasai nodded curtly, calling up Halo in the holographic display. "My holds are bursting with weapons, but if the murderer is within your grasp, why should I not pursue him with the warriors stationed on my ship?"

"If you wish to explain to the Prophet of Stewardship why you have deployed combat troops to the steppes of Halo, that is your own prerogative." Vlar knew of the jurisdiction battles that the Prophet in charge of the Fleet of Particular Justice had fomented and manipulated, so that only those who might remember the Prophet and repay him in political favors were granted a chance at combat. Suddenly, he found himself in the Prophet's role, forcing Vasai's hand with what he could do and what he couldn't do. To preserve the honor of Docha 'Kandonom, the Docha Blade must be recovered, with no-one the wiser. Vasai couldn't recover the Blade, Vlar could. Docha Kandonom, or those who knew, would be indebted to Vlar. Politics, as trite as it often was, is as much an art of high ground and flanking as true battle was.

Vasai capitulated. He was no politician, but one only needed to be a fair tactician to see where the lines of power were being drawn. "Walk through my ship, requisition what you must, and my aide shall see that it is delivered. I only ask that you retrieve the Docha Blade swiftly and secretly, and send the body of the murderer as well. I shall be happy to receive it alive, but as a pragmatist, I shall understand if it is not."

As Vlar 'Koalomee left, the Shipmaster removed his armor and began to clean it by hand, ordering the décor of the room to change with mute gestures. The lights dimmed and reddened, and the hologram of Halo faded, replaced by luminescent tablets engraved with the Battle-Hymns of Docha 'Kandonom. The strains of the first chorus swelled and filled the room as Vasai 'Kandonomee continued to build a suitable Mourn for his fallen relative.

* * *

**Upper Balcony of Beacon Tower, 1933 Hours**

"So, once the rear guard gets to the high ground, we would jackknife a trailer through here, stop pursuit craft like Ghosts, Spectres, Revenants. We'd load the trailer with explosives sometimes to keep them guessing. It was a one-way trip, so we'd use computer-pilots as often as possible. Couldn't always do it that way, so the guys who tended the trucks had to be ready to save everyone even if it meant they couldn't get to safety."

"Noble," Kanoff remarked. "Were they volunteers?"

"Had to be," Montag replied. "But I've always wondered about that, noble. Someone staying behind to let his teammates escape is noble, da? What about someone who takes a crate of grenades and charges the enemy during an attack, with the clear intent of dying while taking out as many of the enemy as possible?"

"Slightly more troubling," Da Vega ventured. It bothered her, but how does one put it into words? What was the reason? "I guess the difference is that the person who stays behind is making the best of a bad situation, he's not wasting his life. No, the other guy isn't exactly _wasting_ his life, but he's ending it before he really has to. The first guy had life deal him those cards, and he's trying to make the best of it when he might as well give up. The suicide guy? He _is_ giving up. I guess it would depend on the reasons he might have, but I can't say I'm comfortable with it."

Montag tried to keep his face straight. One simple question had been all it took to test the Marine's amenability to his plan, and the answer was negative. "So, what if a guy was injured in a previous engagement. Something that's fatal or untreatable in the current situation. Since he's only got a few days left to live, he volunteers to wear an undercoat of detcord and claymores to soften up a Covenant position. Would that be immoral of him or his superior officer?"

"That..." Da Vega started. Well, it was a darker shade of gray, but what was the difference? How do you put that in words? "I think... I think the problem with that is that it's more offensive, it's premeditated. Doesn't quite seem right."

"Can that even happen?" Kanoff asked.

Montag nodded. "Plasma burns to the limbs can take days to kill you through blood poisoning, though the shock will get you much faster than that. Internal bleeding can take a few days, and it can be hard to treat in the field, so it happens."

"How often did you do it on Siberia Prime?"

"As little as I could, and only when we ran out of dogs. I fought with myself over that, whether it was necessary or just convenient. And at the end of the day, I remember that I was ordered to hold that area and protect the civilians at all costs. I did what I had to do, and it's not what troubles my conscience."

"So, what does trouble your conscience?"

"I'll tell you later. I'd like to continue, but the rain's definitely started letting up." Montag stood, handed his cup back to Kanoff, and shouldered his pack. "Stay here and keep a watch up. I'm going to get the rest of the squad."

Before he could leave, Da Vega got another barb past his armor. "You're coming back, right?"

Montag turned to face her, half a meter away from a curtain of rain. "Da Vega, the reason I abandoned you guys on the Autumn is because I was angry and bitter. The Covenant had just glassed Reach without us even scoring a decent victory. They taunted us, let us think we could win, and then they killed us. And right at the beginning, I broke ranks to help some old friends, two men who had devoted their lives to the UNSC, believed in the innate superiority of a unified mankind, and then they were locked up for political crimes. I broke them out, I offered them a way back into the fold, and you know what they did? They turned around and bit me. You spend so much time in your life convinced that soldiers and veterans have a moral superiority over civilians, and the need for Humanity to unite in the face of an alien threat ethically nullifies all other concerns, and it's a fine house to live in. But when someone kicks in the door..."

Da Vega nodded. Far less comforting than it would be if she said "I understand."

Montag stepped out into the rain, covering his bandage with both hands. The right side of his face was throbbing, either from the soul-searching or from the PPM wearing off. He examined his left arm, the one where he'd ripped the sleeve off.

If the squad was leaving soon, he wasn't sure if he should risk a dose of polypseudomorphine. It probably didn't cause his hallucinations _per se,_ but they usually seemed to increase whenever he got a good dose. He made up his mind when a torrent of liquid pain surged behind his eye and pooled in his sinus cavity.

He stumbled through the doorway and down the ramp, seeking a needle with a green jacket in the medical kit he'd stuck to his belt.

"Enjoy the group therapy session?"

Montag jammed the needle into a vein and waited for the pain to subside before he opened his eyes. Rainwater dripped off of him, leaving him chilled to the bone.

"Get up. There's someone who you need to talk to."

Montag risked a peek.

The Shadow stood in front of him, bulky armor well defined, BR-55 loosely grasped in one hand. The only place that retained the customary otherness was the face, which had the blurred, repugnant look of being designed by someone with no idea of what a human ought to be.

Beyond the Shadow, the interior of the beacon tower was blurred, with metal and holograms morphing into burnished permacrete and advertisements and train schedules. It was a subway station of Siberia Prime at the height of its civilization, a perfect unity of warmth, comfort, and utilitarianism. The trains even ran on time.

It was beautiful. It was what a lost man needed to remember that he'd had a home, that maybe there was some place where he'd never have to run again. Like most of his dreams and hallucinations, there must surely be odd details and disjunctions that would give it away as a hallucination, but Montag didn't want to see them.

"Who?" he asked.

"Our commanding officer."

Montag turned around at the doors he'd walked through, doors that looked like they'd been ripped off the officer's quarters in a firebase. Beyond them would be First Lieutenant Beatty Demarest, reading a thick book on infantry tactics or logistics. Maybe he would be reading up on psychology or history, brushing up on his sociology and scribbling into the margins of the datapad's screen, slowly building a mental encyclopedia he could use at will to effortlessly break apart arguments and inspire his men to give more than they thought possible. He was a leader that dragged his men through Hell and excelled because he was pulling, not pushing. They had to struggle to keep up with him.

He also got away with it because he could tell when his soldiers were about to break, not just as a group but as individuals as well. You couldn't lie to him, you couldn't bullshit him. When he came around to talk to you, he would know exactly what your major malfunction was by the time he left, talked you through it more often than not.

He had been a giant among men, someone who Montag had idolized and sought to emulate, and then failed spectacularly. Men like Demarest were born, not created, and Montag couldn't hope to measure up, though an eidetic memory would have helped.

Montag choked, holding back the tide of despair that had plagued him after the fall of Siberia Prime. That had been the biggest defeat of his life, when he found that for all his skill at strategizing, he couldn't truly inspire his men to follow him through the darkest parts of Hell. That there was more to the world than fit his philosophy.

This Demarest, he was disappointed to realize, was the same. He would just be a projection of Montag's mind, a shallow copy. Montag wanted advice, wanted assurance that he was doing the right thing. But he wouldn't find it here.

Montag turned his back on the doors and searched his pack for a needle of Ceretin. The last time he and Demarest had talked, the day before he'd been given a death sentence for atrocities at San Lorenze, Demarest had told him about one last nightmare. A vision worse than the extinction of Humanity and the victory of the Covenant. It was the original nightmare of full human civil war, the fact that humans were too fractured by the invention of the Shaw-Fujuki slipspace drive and the subsequent expansion into space faster than communication could keep up, trashing the three centuries of globalization that had happened beforehand. Once the Purple Peril had become old news, the Insurrectionists had gone back to their petty nationalistic feuds.

Montag had understood. The idea had taken seed and grown until Montag found himself conducting anti-insurrectionist operations a year ago. And even then he'd bungled that, seven months ago, losing himself and losing what opportunity he had to carry out Beatty's last directive.

He was lost, and Demarest could have helped him, but he was gone. All Montag had left was Sierra Squad.

Maybe they'd do.

* * *

**Walled Ziggurat, 1936 Hours**

Junior was standing on the cool metal of the outbuilding, warily watching the grass growing up to the building. When the wind blew the blades into reach, he'd bat at them fearfully.

Junior had been a ship's cat, always surrounded by metal and plastic. Grass was probably something he was still getting used to.  
Gently, Jonesy picked the cat up and held him to his chest. Beyond those clouds were constellations never before seen by humans, let alone cats. It waas as alien to Sierra Squad as it was for the cat, and yet the humans had walled it off. See a coniferous tree, pretend it's a redwood. See a bug, pretend it's a firefly.  
He wondered what the cat thought of it all.

"Sky's still ugly," Liz said, interrupting Jonesy's train of thought. And it was. Now that the rain had died down and they could see more than fifty meters, the sky had revealed itself to be full of dark blue, low-flying clouds. The low altitude was probably necessitated by Halo's design, but it was still a foreboding sight.

Montag appeared from behind, pointing at the vehicles. "Everyone pack up, we're leaving."

Liz got up with the rest, but followed Montag to his Ghost. "Do you think we're going to get another downpour?"

"I certainly hope not," Montag replied. "But it's died down now, and the longer we stay here, the more likely the Covenant are to run into us. Out there, if we keep our heads, we have a chance to break off an engagement. But if we're forced to fight here, it's going to be a last st-"

Montag trailed off when a succession of booming noises were carried in on the wind, like a series of cluster munitions going off.

"Da Vega, Kanoff?" Montag asked his radio. "What direction is that coming from?"

"Going by the compass on my aye-arr, west by northwest," Da Vega replied. "Sound like anything Covenant to you?"

"Flak Wraith, maybe," June replied. "Needler turrets. Nothing we want to run into."

"Right. Time to make like a tree and leave."

_'Yes, but what about conifers?' _Montag wondered. He started the Ghost, waited for Kanoff and Da Vega to reach the Warthog, and then took point.

* * *

_It once had a mind. Now it was more._

_Though it did not understand how, all but the most basic forms of its kind talked to each other. Their thoughts, hardly more complex than animals, were babbling, confused, without order until it had imposed order. Theirs were cries of anger, confusion, fear, and hunger. Usually hunger._

_A host would temporarily become a source of clarity, provide focus for the forms around it. A fire in the darkness, slowly dying as the fuel was consumed._

_And yet, the species had hit a critical mass somewhere along its wanderings. On instinct, three hosts had sought the deepest shelter and merged. Three minds became one._

_As it surveyed Halo through ten thousand eyes, plotting the myriad paths of the future, the metamorphosis continued. Like a bar magnet surrounded by iron filings, the countless forms about it were drawn into alignment with its will. Their minds melded into the whole, their bodies became extensions of the central will. Memories and knowledge pooled, too fast and too furious for immediate categorization. And yet it devoured the memories with an insatiable hunger, plundered knowledge from the hosts before it could be lost to decay._

_Even as it categorized the memories into a vast library, there were some it couldn't place, some whose origins were uncertain. There was the unshakable purpose of its species, that it was the venture forth, consume entire worlds and span the galaxy with its consciousness... again? As it passed over the knowledge of the self-styled Covenant, learning what it could about the species that had built this relic, why did it feel it could sort truth from dogma so easily? What was the source of its unease toward the Humans present, when by all accounts they were nearing extinction?_

_It was under no illusions. It knew more about its hosts than itself, but that would change very soon._

_For now, it would have to survive. Forces were mobilizing against it, some blind to the unified intelligence of the species as they fought the parasite's incursion. The automatons that guarded this relic, however, were burning a path through bulkhead and biomass, seeking the nexus of the species' consciousness._

_The Sentinels were entering through the hangar, killing the hosts with surgical precision. It ordered the hosts to rally and counter, plasma weapons to the fore._

_Cover. Focus fire._

_Potential hosts had set up a barricade in a ravine leading to the ship, fighting off the flood of parasites. Their position was weak, but defeating them would be too costly._

_Retreat. Scatter._

_A group of Covenant were fleeing the engine rooms where they had sought to block entrance into the ship. One was a ranking officer, knowledgeable about troop deployments across the relic._

_Pursue._

_A cluster of infection forms had found a number of Human corpses from earlier skirmishes aboard the ship, most too badly damaged or decayed to retain their memories._

_Gather. Conserve._

_The Sentinels were halted, seeking another avenue of entrance. A number of hosts had been killed, but a few could still be of use to the nearby infection forms._

_Consume. Reanimate._

_The officer cleared a doorway and found himself flanked by a pair of carriers._

_Birth. Overwhelm. Consume._

_The defenders of the barricade burned the dead hosts once the infection forms had retreated, forgetting or not knowing that the parasites could scale sheer walls, and were even now bypassing the barricade on the cliffs to either side._

_Flank. Converge. Consume._

_A host, gathering the broken bodies from a crashed dropship, spotted a flight of new dropships on the horizon, speeding for the ship._

_Survive._

* * *

**A/N: Huh. At one point, when Montag was reflecting on stuff that happened hours ago, I almost wrote "Chapters". I think that's telling me something.**

**What's surely going to raise eyebrows is a reference to Adolf Hitler as a "Tactical Genius". One of the things I believe in is giving credit where credit is due, and Hitler _was_ tactically adept and strategically gifted, and did not make many more mistakes than his contemporaries did. As far as I know, his reputation of incompetence seems to stem from the fact that the people who disagreed with his commands were the survivors, and therefore got to write the history books. And his slow descent into insanity towards the end of the war didn't help either.  
**

**And, to be fair, he did make the classic blunder of initiating a land war in Asia.  
**

**As far as the Docha Blades go, it's been a plot point that's kind of a pain in the side. It was too unwieldy to introduce earlier, and it's awkward fully elaborating upon it now. Really, many Elites put honor before reason, but I'd written Mortumas 'Kandonomee and his underlings as being unusually pragmatic, and there's probably limits to how far an Elite will go to chase down a single Human. The sword was inspired by the American tradition of the President signing monumental legislation into office with multiple pens (75 were used to sign the 1964 Civil Rights Act) and then giving the pens away to supporters. Except the sword is about as valuable as, say, a Feldmarschall's baton or the Golden Rose, or Lt. Colonel Kilgore's surfboard.**

**Really, one of the things that I've been looking forward to since, say, I posted chapter 5, was this great debate between Montag and a mental projection of Demarest over Montag's "Only What's Necessary" philosophy. Most of it is floating around in a notebook somewhere, but the story went in the wrong direction for it. Instead of focusing on the San Lorenze Massacre (I mean, the only thing you guys know about it is that Montag was shot, there was a war crimes trial, Montag was acquitted, and a Scorpion tank was driven through an apartment building at one point. And you only know that last part because I just wrote it) most of the flashback exposition has gone toward Siberia Prime, where Montag's commitment to that philosophy started falling to pieces. In the end, the conversation with Kanoff and Da Vega was just more organic.**

**In other news... well, what is there to report? ODST has become my second-favorite Halo game so far, and I'm thinking about what other franchise to wade into now that I've finished the Halo collection. The status of other projects is unchanged, as of yet, although The TTP Project may be down a member...**

**Recommended reading for this month: Barbarossa, by Alan Clark. Go ahead. Read it. The fact that you could probably kill someone with the book with a 5-foot drop doesn't mean it's too long to read or anything.**


	28. The True Meaning of Terror

_**There is a quote by Nietsche that escapes me at the time of writing, but it sums up what happened to some of our own. The Covenant were hard to defeat, but easy to fight; all of the doublethink and lesser lies we've invented over the millenia to sidestep the fact that we're killing fellow humans, they were completely unnecessary. We didn't have to pretend that different skin color or eye shape or nose width made the enemy less than human. We didn't have to invent slurs to avoid calling the enemy 'people' or 'them', though we did anyway. Humans were good guys, aliens were monsters, and we assumed that the war fit nice and smooth into that worldview.**_

_**It's the same mistake as the racism and petty hatred our ancestors dealt with. What makes us human goes beyond skin, beyond where we were born or who we were born to. Maybe some of us forgot that somewhere along the way, maybe some of us never learned it in the first place. And some people, people who I knew, abandoned it willingly. Abandoned what made Humanity worth fighting for.**_

**_Colonel Joseph T. Barnes_, "Where the Winds of Limbo Roar: A Survivor's Account", (Bantam Publishers, 2581) p. 12  
**

* * *

**2001 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
Airfield, Covenant-Occupied Installation  
Halo  
**

The Unggoy were cowardly and simple in thought. But give them tools and rags, and they could work wonders. The trees that the Humans cut down to cover the temple's upper entrance and then set alight had been cleared away, the ashes dumped upon the ring of glass. Inside, the ash had been swept up and the sooty residue of the chemical fire was slowly being scrubbed away.

Vlar 'Koalomee stepped onto the elevator and gestured for the command room. As the elevator descended, black grime lining the inside of the elevator shaft revealed the limitations of the Unggoy's industry. Perhaps a dozen Yan'mee could be brought in...

That line of thought was cut short when the elevator slowed to a halt. Creiva 'Dontaree was waiting patiently in the doorway, and an Unggoy was busily mopping a path to the center of the command room.

"Welcome," Creiva said. "Your mission has gone well."

"Phantoms, turrets, carbines," Vlar affirmed. "They've been entrusted to us by Shipmaster 'Kandonomee. What news do we have of the Humans?"

"The Humans reached the crash site of one of their dropships before we could intercept them. They ambushed and killed a scouting detachment that had already arrived. Whose troops those were, I am unsure. The Humans took no casualties, resupplied, and may have taken their dropship's mounted weaponry with them. A pair of our Banshees arrived before they left, and thought it best to follow from a distance. They lost the group twice, and are not optimistic about their chances of locating them again in this weather, for which they humbly beg forgiveness."

As he narrated, Creiva 'Dontaree summoned a holographic map from a projector in the room. It was easily three strides across, and showed the surface of Halo in awe-inspiring fidelity. In the section Creiva focused on, it appeared that every hill, every tree, every patch of dirt was visible. He touched another control, and the landscape was suddenly populated by the Forerunner's obscure symbols. Many thousands of them in every shade of the spectrum hovered a whisper's breadth above the surface. Most were beyond Vlar's understanding, too arcane for him to have learned or too generic for him to recognize.

But, isolated by Creiva's deft manipulation of the controls, were seven instances of a symbol that the commander knew all too well. Human.

"But, as you can see," the adjutant continued. "It matters not what shelter the Humans seek or what obstacle Fate places in our way. This terminal is much like the Luminaries we use to hunt them down, only constructed by the Forerunner themselves."

"You hold me in awe," Vlar remarked. "This is the same terminal you used to activate the Temple's security against the fleeing Humans?"

"It was."

"We should count ourselves blessed, then, that the Humans never found it. They seem to stumble upon everything else." Vlar remarked as he studied the hills that the Humans were wandering through. "They're headed for their downed ship. They'll be in Legion 'Reham's territory before long."

The commander reached for holographic map, and then paused. "Is it safe to touch?"

"It is now," Creiva said as he dismissed the controls.

"Excellent." Vlar swept his hand over a swath of lowland forest. "The warriors are to be distributed in a staggered scale formation throughout this forest. Two lances per group, half a unit between groups. At the far edge of the forest, our remaining Wraiths are to stand guard in case of a breakthrough, while the turrets we have received from Shipmaster 'Kandonomee are to be deployed, powered down, and hidden on the near edge of the forest. Activate them when the Humans have passed by..."

Vlar 'Koalomee paused, going through the logistics his plan required. "The dropships we have in our possession will be insufficient for the task. Even if we double up with the Shadows."

"There is a way," his adjutant offered. "But why a staggered scale formation?"

"This lance of Humans has shown that it will fight only when it has to, and will avoid conflict if possible. With our warriors deployed that way, the Humans will be sure to encounter a group. If they disengage, they will not be able to do so fast enough to avoid casualties; the benefit of fighting in the woodland terrain. If they try to make a stand, the surrounding groups will be close enough to cut off all retreat and flank them." Spying the look on Creiva's face, Vlar elaborated. "It's a hunting tactic. K'rell'n were omnivores that would break fences, ravage crops, and prey upon livestock. They were prone to fleeing but dangerous when cornered. When one was sighted, farmers of my clan would chase it through the highlands, tiring one and bleeding it out. Whoever brought it to bay had to face it alone, but had claim to the tenderest meat. Or, occasionally, his next of kin did."

"A good trade, I'm sure," Creiva remarked dryly. He banished the terrain map and summoned a diagram that looked like a child's puzzle, where paths must be rotated and moved to connect one node to another. "While you were away, I had the opportunity to examine this temple's controls. There is a translocation system that runs throughout all of this relic, much like the systems we have discovered in other reliquaries, and I believe it is intended to shuttle cargo across the expanse of Halo."

The puzzle unfolded and faded. Below it, the map of Halo returned, divided into a patchwork of sections whose organization may have made sense to the Forerunner, but it was beyond Vlar's understanding.

"The sections you see are what I have taken to calling districts," Creiva explained. "Translocation within a district is instantaneous, but translocation between districts takes a moment to initialize. Perhaps authorization is requested, perhaps the networks in the different districts have to join step."

"What can be transmitted?" Vlar asked, realizing the full implications of the system.

"One individual at a time. I started with a cripple that was wandering about, and progressed up to a fully laden Spirit dropship, without incident. Perhaps a function exists to select a group of warriors, but I have yet to find it."

"Were you able to transmit a Spectre with the sideseats full?"

"Yes, you think of using the system to retrieve the Humans. I attempted to do that earlier, before the Banshees lost their trail, only to be rebuffed with a request for authorization," Creiva clicked his mandibles. "I can only surmise that this is a system for shuttling cargo, not waste management."

"Arbitrary, yes, but it would be presumptuous to expect the works of the Forerunner to do our task for us."

"Yes, Mortumas often spoke of the Forerunner testing us," Creiva murmured. He banished the translocation routine and summoned a detailed representation of the structure they occupied, the temple and its underground annex. The hologram was studded with the sigils of the Forerunner, marking the machines that let the temple perform whatever noble duty the Forerunner had designed it for. "While learning the workings of the translocation system, I was temporarily locked out by a transit from elsewhere into the pit where we trapped the Humans. That aroused my interests, as we cannot transmit so much as a cripple into that section of the temple."

Creiva paused and turned to the Unggoy that was quietly scrubbing soot off the walls and pretending not to listen. "Out."

The Unggoy made a good show of not being disappointed as it waddled out of the room and took the elevator to the top of the base. Once it was gone, Creiva 'Dontaree resumed his explanation in hushed whispers. "The intruder was represented by an Icon which I have only seen once, and that many years ago. At the start of this Age, when the Heirarchs ascended to their high offices and revealed what great duty had been revealed unto them by the ancient servant of the Forerunner, I saw that Icon, the hieroglyph of an Oracle. And when it left the pit, it took one of the Humans with it."

"Troubling," Vlar mused. There was nothing else to say. A Speaker for the Transcended, given the spark of true intelligence by the finest Craftsmen of the Forerunner and entrusted with an eternal vigil over the Gates to Godhood, consorting with a Human.

The Humans were tenacious, perhaps even clever, and they were no more prone to acts of barbarity than the other client races of the Covenant. Yet their systematic desecration of the Forerunner artifacts in their domain had turned all of the Forerunner's creations against them. The Luminaries marked each one of them for swift justice under the Instrument of the Gods. That had been a divine edict issued from the Gods themselves, so important that the Mute Oracle had broken its silence in order to instruct the Covenant of their duty.

"I've heard it said that the ways of the Forerunner are opaque, for their view is omnipotent and they plan for all things," Creiva muttered. "More often, I hear that they test our faith and our mettle. But excuses count for naught when our teachings are so openly mocked!"

"Upon other ears, that would be heresy," Vlar warned.

"I know of heresy," Creiva snarled, gesturing at a small black device set against the holo system's control podium. "With a tool intended to unlock doors and span chasms, I have done the work of the San 'Shyuum. Weighing the honor of Mortumas 'Kandonomee and retribution upon an honorless murderer against the consequences that would follow discovery, I found the heresy to be a necessary evil."

"I have always believed in the Great Journey with my foreheart," Creiva continued. "My hindheart leaped for joy at the discovery of the Sacred Halo. Every heartbeat upon the Forerunner's greatest creation is a new spiritual awakening. But when my eyes defy my faith, which must I believe?"

Silence returned to the room, where it had dwelled for ages past. The ever-patient tools of the Forerunner were used to it, but Sangheili were mortal and preferred action to awkward introspection.

"The Path is wide, brother, but for the blind... Take this crisis and put it aside for now. I want complete and utter dedication to the task at hand. But when we are finished, we shall descend unto that group of Humans and torture every last one until they reveal what transpired between them and the Oracle. Perhaps then, we shall see once more."

"That, I shall accept."

"Thank you," Vlar said. "Move our troops into place once the Seraphim have been prepared. Have them loaded into the Phantoms and Shadows, and order dropship's running lights turned off. How close can you get them to the ground?"

"Close enough. The exit points seem to translate so they don't overlap with the ground or objects such as trees. I noticed this while experimenting, and confirmed it by attempting to transmit a cripple into a large boulder."

Vlar stared quizzically at his adjutant.

"I was curious," Creiva explained nonchalantly.

The commander nodded and made his way to the elevator. The blade was not yet cast, but he had no choice but to follow through with his plan. One final attempt to redeem his mentor.

Would the Murderer fall for the trap? Would it see Death rushing to reclaim it?

* * *

**2024 Hours, Rolling Plains 49 km Downspin of Pillar of Autumn**

"Yeah, I see it," Montag said, passing the binoculars back to Kanoff. "Running lights are wrong for Spirits, too big for Banshees."

"Don't look like Familiars either, thank God," Kanoff added. "That leaves, what? Seraphs? Phantoms?"

Montag started up the Ghost and pulled away from the Warthog. _"Seraphim. _Whatever it is, we're not staying around to find out. On my mark, we race for that treeline over there, lose them in the foliage."

"Montag? We've got a rack of Anvil V missiles. One of those could gut a Phantom in one shot."

"Yeah," Montag agreed, mentally kicking himself for forgetting. "But their effective range is inside the engagement distance of Seraphim, and-"

"And they've got more Seraphs than we've got Anvils," Da Vega interrupted, lowering the binoculars.

Montag squinted at the distant lights, growing closer by the second. Without bothering to get a proper count, he gestured in the opposite direction and whispered "Mark."

Leaving twin tracks of mud and crushed grass, Kanoff gunned the Warthog for all it was worth. He quickly lost ground to the Spectre; whatever that vehicle's shortcomings may be, it had good traction on any terrain. The Ghost was last as the driver slowed to avoid the larger vehicles.

Halfway to the treeline, the Seraphim opened fire.

Montag had been groping through the Ghost's makeshift equipment rack when the hailstorm of plasma fire began. Immediately, he banked the Ghost hard and gave thanks for once that the vehicle caught so easily on the ground. That was the only thing that let him get the bulk of the vehicle between him and the Seraphim.

The bolts of plasma, enough to give tank armor a run for its money, vaporized chunks of Ghost and sod. The Jackal gauntlet that Montag had activated went down on the first hit. Rifle in one hand and backpack in the other, he dove off the Ghost. It dug into the ground, flipped, and exploded. Before the remains could hit the ground, a plasma charge skewered it and left a steaming crater.

The plasma fire died down. Prematurely, yes, as Montag seemed to be in one piece, no worse for the wear than what usually happened when he vacated a moving vehicle at 30 kilometers per hour. He looked up, expecting to see the Warthog and the Spectre being reduced to burning metal. But aside from cursory harassment, the Seraphim ignored the rest of Sierra Squad as they flew by.

Montag tried to puzzle it out, understand why they'd been granted this reprieve. But when a lance of pure pain has been driven through your eye, it was hard to think about less pressing matters. He felt the bandages on his head, removed his gloves to feel for blood. His fingers came away slick with rainwater, but he couldn't see any tell-tale redness in the twilight. No broken skin, then. Something much worse.

He unfolded his backpack and gently opened the medical kit, wary of anything that might have been jarred loose from the impact. He reached around a bottle of liquid bandage and retrieved a polypseudomorphine needle. Time to exceed the manufacturer's recommended daily dose.

He blinked. He'd found the proper vein out of habit, and was ready to inject the medicine. But when his backpack had hit the ground, some things had fallen out of place. And right now, he was looking at his last two needles of Ceretin, cracked and spilling their milky contents.

Morphine took the pain away, Ceretin kept his nightmares at bay. He couldn't use one without the other. Not in the middle of an ambush.

The sniper turned around to see if Sierra Squad was coming back for him, and yelped as pain exploded behind his eye and raced down his neck. Screw it; if he didn't take painkillers now, he wasn't going to be in any shape to survive.

He sat back to give the morphine time to work, scanning the sky for the flight of Seraphim. Squinting through the low-hanging stormclouds, he failed to see a telltale engine glow. They weren't coming around for a second strafing run. Why wouldn't they...

His question was answered by a lance of plasma that almost took out the Rifle. He twisted around, and saw a row of lights powering up along the distant treeline.

* * *

**2025 Hours, T-46 LAV Cabin**

Jonesy had, thus far, resisted the temptation to boost the Spectre out and away from danger. It would save him and his passengers, if the Seraphs didn't catch on right away, but it was tantamount to abandoning the rest of the squad.

He couldn't see the other vehicles, although he imagined the Warthog was keeping pace. But with the strobing reflection off his windshield and June screaming Montag's name, Jonesy could only hope that Montag's inability to die covered anti-tank fire.

That quickly became Someone Else's Problem when a number of Covenant turrets, spaced at least a hundred meters apart, powered up and revealed themselves in the twilight. Training let him immediately identify them as the Type 34 Automated Plasma Turret. Heavily armored and deadly accurate, they were the Covenant's way of informing you that you were well and truly screwed. He'd prefer not to take on them without anti-tank weaponry, which Dirkins didn't have time to break out.

Placing his foot on the recess for boosted speed, he murmured "Ramming speed."

"June, Dirkins," he called into the radio. "Hold on, I'm going to ram it!"

The Spectre lunged forward, pushing past a hundred klicks per hour. It hit the barricade in front of the turret at full tilt, bowling it over and becoming temporarily airborne.

Before they hit the ground, Jonesy remembered that Dirkin's position was analogous to that of a motorcycle sideseat, not a good way to survive a head-on collision. He immediately stepped on the brakes and braced himself against the console.

With the sound of composite hull meeting metal bracings, the Spectre plowed into the turret. The vehicle went nose down and dug into the mud while the turret popped up on its rear leg. The left leg swept up over the driver's canopy, leaving fractures across the windshield. Far too quickly for comfort, the Spectre ground to a halt.

The engineer pulled himself off the console, wondering if he'd missed the safety restraints or if Elites preferred to go without. A spiderweb of cracks ran through the windshield, curling back upon themselves in a matter decidedly unlike glass. He rolled back and kicked the canopy, putting both feet through effortlessly. The hole would have to be widened before he crawled out, but that point was rendered moot when a trio of plasma bolts barely missed his boots, dribbling molten glass onto him.

"Jonesy, down!" June shouted belatedly. "We've got company!"

Partially obscured by the cracks, Jonesy could see Covenant infantry pouring out of the forest. Or, maybe "pouring" was the wrong term. They were stopping at a safe engagement range, Jackals at the fore, and laying down suppressive fire. Dirkins and June were fighting back with plasma cannons, but they were outnumbered and pinned down.

One Jackal ran forward, cocked its arm, and threw a plasma grenade. The charge arced brilliantly through the rain and landed on the tripod leg above the windshield. It didn't occur to Jonesy to be thankful that Jackals didn't get more practice with lobbing explosives. He just pushed himself back in the seat and curled into a ball.

The overpressure collapsed the canopy and slammed into him. In the confines of the cockpit, it felt like being dragged under a hundred meters of water, being beaten by a team of divers, and then thrown back to the surface. The heat was almost as bad, flash boiling the water in the upper layers of his skin and momentarily setting his fireproof fatigues ablaze.

Jonesy dove out of the Spectre and rolled across the muddy ground. The skin on his face and hands was burned, his lungs felt like they were coated in charcoal, and the rest of his body had yet to file a sitrep, but the casualty estimates were high.

Squinting around, Jonesy saw that June and Dirkins were still fighting back. Dirkins had finally found a jackhammer, and the Type-34 had rolled off the Spectre, freeing the turret for June. But even if they could keep fighting like this, more Covenant were bound to show up, and the number of rockets they had for the launcher could be counted on one hand. They had to turn tail and run, get the Spectre running if possible. If they tried that, though, the other autoturrets would cut them down before they got half a kilometer.

Wordlessly, Jonesy pressed himself into the mud and crawled around the Spectre, searching for the left sideseat. Or, rather, what was in the sideseat.

* * *

**2027 Hours, Plasma Crater**

Sitting cross-legged, Montag had the Rifle laid out across his knees. Slowly, he ran his fingers over the receiver, gently looking for damage. Tapping along the scope rail told him where it was secured, where it was loose. Manually cycling the firing action with this right hand while the fingers of his left hand were splayed across the receiver told him what was wrong, like a doctor listening to a patient's heartbeat.

Around him, the echoes of automatic weapons fire rang out, that curious hammering sound you only heard from distant urban combat. If he concentrated on the Rifle, and only the Rifle, he could ignore the fact that he was on an adobe hotel roof, inspecting his rifle when he should be providing covering fire for Demarest's Degenerates. Twiddling his thumbs while Siberia Prime burned. Contemplating his navel while Kantorek died. Dropping the ball, all alone in a factory. Cooling his heels in the UNSC _Inchon_'s brig, as far from the captured Innies as his CO could get him.

For a moment, while bile rose to his mouth, the Rifle felt more like a shotgun.

If he tried hard enough, he could even pretend that he wasn't on an alien Ringworld, feeling sorry for himself while his squad was dying. He'd led them directly into an ambush, one whose obviousness belied its efficacy. Another failure in a life full of them, mortared together with retroactive justifications, his nightmares nothing but a playlist of them set to shuffle.

"Pathetic."

If reality was what was still there when you close your eyes and stop believing in it, Montag was disappointed. Maybe he wasn't not believing hard enough?

"The late, great Gui Montag, Blood-Fiend of Lublanska, the man who Death Itself would not collect, giving up the fight," the Shadow accused. "Sierra Squad will die without you. You won't see the Pillar of Autumn again without them. Now reload that weapon and save them."

Montag drew the Handgun and flicked the safety off. He was injured, the bandages around his head torn and muddy. Sierra Squad was dead already, if not dying. If his life was an unending string of failures, maybe it was time to cut it short.

The Shadow cocked its head, light gleaming off the gas mask. "Dereliction of duty will not be countenanced-"

"Empty orders," Montag countered. "You're just a figment of my imagination, all inside my head. I hope the bullet hits you on its way through."

The Shadow reached out to touch the Handgun, as if to force it down. For a long, uncomfortable moment, Montag had to remind himself that the only thing pulling the gun down was gravity and his own fatigue.

"You're not brave enough. You're a coward, Montag, always have been. You won't pull that trigger because, for all you know, the only thing waiting for you is an endless sleep with your memories for dreams."

"Montag," the radio chirped. "Are you alive? Are you... can you hear me?"

Even with the filters on the radio tuning the sounds of plasma fire out, Jonesy was hard to understand. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"We're caught under an autoturret, getting pinned down by Covvie infantry. I've got the missiles ready, I just need you to paint the turrets.

"Yeah," Montag said, tracking the plasma shells to their origin. "Are you sure those Anvils can indirect-fire like that?"

"Just paint the turrets. I've got three missiles undamaged, and I don't know how long they'll last."

* * *

**2027 Hours, Spectre Crash Site**

Jonesy blinked the stars from his vision. The iron-gray clouds and light rain made for a dark background to the best light show he'd ever attended. Blue and green pulses made up the foreground, with the intermittent green streak. The answering fire was a slightly more rapid stream of blue bolts, with the stutter-fire from the Spectre's turret in accompaniment. In the background, rain fell almost vertically from the sky.

It was beautiful, and Jonesy couldn't help but love the front-row seating, but the performers themselves left much to be desired in the way of company, and he had every intention of leaving the building before the encore arrived in the form of another plasma grenade.

June spoke up on the radio, ending what had been an impressive extended metaphor, even for Jonesy. She was yelling for Montag to do something about the automated turrets that had driven her from the Spectre's turret.

"Montag," Jonesy whispered into his radio. "Paint the turrets. I've got some missiles ready."

There was no reply.

"Montag, are you alive? Are you... can you hear me?"

After the longest pause in his life, Jonesy heard the sniper's reply. "I'm here. What do you need?"

"We're caught under an autoturret, getting pinned down by Covvie infantry. I've got the missiles ready, I just need you to paint the turrets.

"Yeah, are you sure those Anvils can indirect-fire like that?"

"Just paint the turrets," Jonesy said, pulling the missile pod off the Spectre's sideseat. He pulled a plastic cover off, plugged his XPaq into the pod's UTP, and waited for the program to boot. "I've got three missiles undamaged, and I don't know how long they'll last."

An electronic humming from the pod indicated that the Anvils were primed.

After a pause, Montag called back. "Turret to my right, fire when ready."

Fire indeed. Jonesy was pressed into a hollow created when the Type 34 had dragged across the ground. He couldn't raise the missile pod without exposing it to the Covenant, couldn't climb out without being shot. Best he could do was tuck his legs up to his chest and avoid the backblast as much as possible.

At his command, the first missile leaped from the pod and disappeared out the edge of his vision. The backblast was every bit as bad as the plasma grenade had been, tearing at his fatigues, burning his skin, filling his lungs with the taste of hot metal.

He heard something that was probably an automated turret being reduced to scrap metal, flipped the pod around, and called out to Montag.

"Fire."

The backblast didn't hurt so much this time around. Jonesy tried to ignore what that probably meant.

"Fire."

The last missile was spent. Jonesy pushed the pod, tried to get it out of his foxhole. It rolled, halted, and then fell back on him. Too exhausted to finish the job, Jonesy relaxed and let the rainwater wash over him, soothing the burns.

* * *

**2030 Hours, Plains Downspin of Forest**

The Ghost was one of three dispatched by the acting commander to hunt the Murderer. The commander was coordinating the evacuation from the temple, trying to save the portion of the Legion that had been stranded so far from rescue. Updates on the prey were terse and few, but the Murderer itself wasn't moving far. Perhaps it was wounded.

Nevertheless, order of engagement was to spread out and converge from different directions. If their rides were disabled, the Sangheili were to dismount and provide covering fire. Indeed, against the large rifles the Humans fielded, the Ghosts made better cover than vehicles.

Now, minus two fellow warriors to support him, the remaining Ghost pilot was feeling vulnerable. A flight of Banshees or a Wraith would have been more suited to this task, but there were simply none to spare.

Closed in to twenty paces of the Murderer's wrecked Ghost, the Sangheili circled, hosing the wreck down with plasma. He was acutely aware that the Human could be hiding in the scrub, rather than behind the hulk, but he was out of options, and the overcharged plasma bolt coming out of nowhere cut the Elite's options even more. Sparks arced across the Ghost's hood and dove into the ground. Lifeless, the hoversled skidded to a halt. The driver bailed, rolled to his knees, and panned around, needle rifle at the ready.

The Elite's senses were on overdrive from the dissonance of hunting and being hunted. He could taste the bitter tang of scorched earth and burning metal in the air, feel the bush beneath his hooves and the flicker of his shields failing. And there was something else, not quite a tactile sensation. An acute warmth had speared both hind and foreheart, slowing his breath and overpowering the other senses.

It was odd...

Montag kicked the Elite over and thumbed the power switch on the energy sword's hilt. For a moment, he'd thought he'd seen something...

The Elite, once rolled over, was revealed to be wielding a carbine. Pink needles extended from the receiver.

Montag blinked. This was the first time on the Ringworld that the Covenant had used anything other than their base weaponry... aside from the turrets. And the plasma launchers. And the Ghosts with boosting, if the way the dead ones were cooking off were any indication.

He watched one of the Ghosts shudder, lift into the air, and break apart. The Seraphim had chased Sierra Squad right into an ambush. The Covenant should have dropped the hammer, not a handful of lances easily repelled with automatic weapons, and definitely not with a few Ghosts when the enemy had demonstrated its possession of anti-armor weaponry. And if the Covenant didn't have the troops to spend, then the Seraphim should have turned around and finished the job. It was a half-assed...

In the distance, miniature blue suns rose and set over the forest, distant Wraiths firing at even more distant targets. The sniper grinned; he knew an engagement that wasn't going according to plan when he saw it.

Sitting in the newly captured Ghost, ignoring the cold blood dripping off the hood and the mound of bodies where his old Ghost was, Montag smiled. The Pillar of Autumn was in reach after all.

* * *

**2031 Hours, Downspinward Treeline**

The last Ghost strafed right, forcing Dirkins into cover with a hail of plasma bolts. That gave Jonesy the opening he needed. Sighting his multitool on the triangular seatback, he fired the cable gun. A masonry bit tipped slug launched with a muzzle velocity of 200 meters per second, dragging 14 gauge carbon fiber line behind it. The slug hit home and punched a ragged hole in the purple composite. When the gun's winch kicked in, the Ghost twisted and rolled, pinning the driver beneath it. June circled the hovercraft and peppered the Elite with single shots from a needler, letting the needles self-destruct before shooting again. The Ghost was going to be the only transportation they had, and she wasn't going to waste it with a supercombine.

"Alright, Jonesy, sit. You've got burns from the grenade and missiles, and we can't afford to let them go untreated," Dirkins ordered, prying the multitool from the engineer's hands.

"Yeah, I know," Jonesy replied. "Third degree burns, right? I can't feel them, that means they're pretty bad..."

The last part of the sentence was muffled as Dirkins snapped something like a plastic dust mask over his mouth. Two canisters over the air filters gave him a dose of anesthetic and burn medication with every breath he took.

"No, that's the adrenaline talking," Dirkins lied. "It's mostly first-degree, easily cured with burn gel. The rocket exhaust did a number on your lungs, but I won't know for certain until later. Just rest and we'll get you out of here."

"This is Lance Corporal Gui Montag, broadcasting on a general channel. If you read this, we've got wounded and are trapped behind Covenant lines. Any UNSC forces in the area, respond."

Dirkins rose and looked over at Montag, parked by Junes now-upright Ghost. Five words had caught his attention: "UNSC forces in the area".

"The cavalry has arrived?" he shouted.

"Covenant set an ambush for us and got distracted," Montag explained, fiddling with his radio. "They're fighting someone else, and we aren't lucky enough for a civil war... I repeat, this is Lance Corporal Gui Yubljúdok Montag, broadcasting on a general channel. We are trapped behind enemy lines, we have wounded, and we need assistance. Any UNSC forces in the area, respond."

The only response was silence.

"Huh... are you sure they're fighting something else?" June asked.

"Yeah," Montag replied, taking his helmet off and examining the HUL module. "I saw Wraith mortar fire in the distance... maybe the Ringworld's defenses were activated?"

"They're fighting a distraction," Dirkins interjected. "We don't have time to sit around asking questions, we've got to pack up and get the hell out of Dodge... Also, 'Yabludock'?"

"My mother thought it was funny as hell," Montag said with a tone that strongly suggested that it wasn't up for discussion. "Can we move Jonesy?"

"He's moveable, but he won't walk far. Can't drive a Ghost either."

June, sitting in one of the Ghosts, tapped the hood with her good arm. "Strap him to the hood and we can get out of here."

"June," Montag replied. "There's no such thing as 'so crazy, it just might work.'"

"Haven't either of you hunted big game? Same principle as tying an elk down to the hood of a truck. We're not going to take him far, just where we can hole up and hide from the Covenant. We can start with the cord from his multitool."

"How about it?" Montag asked, deferring to the medic's judgment.

Dirkins frowned. "He'll have to face forward; I want him kept off his chest and I want his belt taking most of the load. You guys get the cord, I'll give him a sedative."

Montag left the cord to June, following Dirkins instead. "Hey, I need to know if Jonesy is going to make it."

"As far as what?" Dirkins retorted. "The next sunrise? Til we get to the Autumn? He just thoroughly trashed himself, I'm not even sure if I could help him if I had twenty four hours alone with an intact medical bay and no Covenant interruption. You just threw yourself off a speeding vehicle and if your head didn't split open, another part of your body must have taken the brunt of the fall. You and June are functioning by virtue of morphine and adrenaline, Kanoff, Da Vega, and Liz are MIA, and I'm the only one who's healthy enough to keep this up."

Montag watched Dirkins slather Jonesy's arms with burn gel, thinking. "Thank you for that analysis. I only... I only need you to keep us together long enough to reach the Pillar of Autumn. We're going to fall back to the beacon tower, regroup, and try again. If, as I suspect, there's another gondola beneath the tower, you'll get a few uninterrupted hours to treat us."

"That's not going to be enough, Montag."

"It'll have to be," Montag replied. He looked down at his hands, realized he was still holding the needle rifle and offered it to Dirkins. "You know how to use this?"

"Three shots to a kaboom," Dirkins replied. "I've come a long way. Fifty years ago, they wouldn't have even handed me a weapon."

"Hey, nobody made you specialize as a medic."

"Wrong," Dirkins said, buttoning Jonesy's fatigues up over a layer of dermal bandages. "Wanted to go into field artillery, but I was too good with the aptitude tests. You can teach anyone to suture an exit wound, but only a few can cope with triage.

Not for the first time, Montag mulled over that idea, wondering how true it was for a lot of people. They wanted to quit, but they were just too good at it. Something to occupy his mind while he stripped the Spectre of weapons.

* * *

**2035 Hours, Administrative Floor of Covenant-Occupied Installation  
**

"The translocation system is active," Creiva confirmed. "It simply refuses to lock onto our warriors, living or dead. Perhaps security measures exist to prevent the spread of the Parasite."

"Yes," Vlar snarled. "We are free to feed the abominations without warning, but it is forbidden to withdraw the Legion to safety. Clearly, the tools of the Forerunner are as wise and just as their makers."

"It's not just the warriors in ambush," one of the Sangheili corrected. "The troops in the base can't be transitioned either."

The warrior's voice was broken, his spirit spent. It was a condition shared by all the Sangheili present, the crew Vlar 'Koalomee had brought in to coordinate one last ambush. But the path of perfection became a road to perdition as, one by one, the impeccably spaced groups of Legion 'Kandonomee were flanked and consumed by...

Vlar paused, trying to recall a sufficiently literary appellation. 'The substance of nightmares' was the best he could get.

Something that could enter a warrior's body and turn him against his brethren, force one to fight even as he suffered from mortal wounds. To think that such a parasite could exist, much less upon the greatest tool of the Gods!

Who was he to deserve this? He, who only sought to preserve his mentor's honor. Was Death leading him along, taking him by his tragic flaw in punishment for his attempt to defy her?

One of the Sangheili gestured at a holographic symbol on the table before them, and the symbol faded. Another lance lost in a futile rear-guard action. Even with their numbers decimated, there was far too much infantry for the dropships on location to move; they were reduced to fleeing on foot with the dropships and Shadows taxiing troops out to a distant hill where an abattis was being prepared.

"The last automated turret has gone silent," another Sangheili remarked. "The enemy seems to have captured our anti-vehicle weaponry."

"Order the Seraphs to lay down a line of suppressive fire on the downspinward border of that forest," Vlar ordered, placing his palm above a position about to be overrun by the enemy. "Any plasma charges they have left are to be fired in a closed-diamond pattern centered on that last autocannon. We can't afford to lose any more dropships."

"Sir, the Prophet of the Ascendant Justice wishes to know why we have deployed our troops far beyond the theater he assigned us. I do not believe we can ignore his reprimands any longer," Janu Rhedakee said. As the Prophet had grown more imperious in his communiques over the last half-day, Vlar and his officers had taken to being increasingly circumlocutionous in their replies. "It would appear that he is vexed enough to send a delegation to bring us back into the fold."

On Janu's display, a Spirit hovered over the Temple. The Prophet's emissary was escorted by a flight of Seraph fighter-bombers to make his arguments all the more persuasive.

"Janu, you could talk a Malekgolo out of its armor with that mouth of yours. Whatever envoy the Prophet has sent, convince the pilot and crew to come out of the Spirit. Creiva, when the Spirit is empty, translocate it just ahead of our force's retreat. Make sure an aircraft-certified Sangheili is ready to pilot it."

"Shall I warn the soldiers outside the base to take cover? The escort will not take kindly to piracy."

"Not now. Give our adversaries as little warning as possible."

The adjutant stared at his controls, lost in thought. Rumors had circulated of a rift between the Minor Prophet and the Fleet Master of the Ascendant Justice following the discovery of Halo, rumors that had been quashed when news of successful contact with High Charity broke. But with the Minister of Etiology having dropped out of contact, presumably killed by Human forces, the old rivalries had been brought to the fore.

Defying the will of a Prophet, even a minor one, was a path best traveled by those with no further love of life. That was even more true with the seat of the Covenant government on its way to reclaim the Holiest of Relics. But with a Fleet Master and a loyal officer corps defying the madman...

Vlar came to the same conclusion. "Creiva, upon completion of your task, contact the Seeker of Truth and inform the Fleet Master of the Prophet's intrusion into matters of security."

At the far end of the holo-table, a Sangheili gestured at the display, and a section of the terrain split off and magnified. A number of icons glowed, the ones reserved for Sangheili and other client races of the Covenant.

"Sir, Major Domo Ker 'Kandonomee has made contact. He has been separated from the Legion and can see enemy forces moving to flank them. He can transmit location data if we dispatch a dropship."

"Forty troops, with nearly the entirety of the forest between them and the main group," another Elite remarked. "Some will have to stay behind, even if we could spare a dropship."

The first warrior paused, listening to the communication. "Commander, Ker 'Kandonomee reports that he can see the Humans escaping. His group is moving to pursue."

By now, Vlar realized, he ought to know when Death was tempting him. What with Mortumas 'Kandonomee's legion being consumed and turned against itself, a brief glimpse of victory was merely an invitation to needlessly send more soldiers to their death. But try as he might, Vlar found that he couldn't let this go. The Harlot would have her fun yet.

"Order them to follow the Humans and kill them when the opportunity presents itself. Task the Simple Blessing with their retrieval."

Meeting the gaze of the collective Sangheili, Vlar clicked his jaws. "By the time they take the Murderer down, I fear there shall be plenty of room in the Phantom."

* * *

**2057 Hours, Beacon Tower**

The rain had grown heavier. If it hadn't been for the constant firing of the beacon tower's beam, the Marines would have driven right past it.

The upspinward door swooshed open, wide enough for the Ghosts to be driven through. It was a tight squeeze as the hallway sloped steeply downward, and finally terminated in a door that opened to the beacon tower's lowest levels.

It was disorienting. In his peripheral vision, the room looked like a subway terminal, and Montag could have sworn that he saw a sunken railway track. But when he truly got a good look, he was saddened to see a standard bottomless pit.

By this time, June had dismounted to walk off the cramps in her legs. While Dirkins tended to Jonesy and ended the Engineer's brief tenure as the Ghost's crumple zone, Montag walked over to the pit and June looked around the room.

"Gui... there's one other door, and it's locked."

"That's what we got Jonesy for," Montag pointed out.

"What?"

"Back under the base, remember? Jonesy was operating the controls for the bridge and the teleporter."

Weakly, Jonesy raised a hand. "I was pushing random buttons, Gui."

The sniper bit his lip. Technically, that qualified as 'Monkey See', but he was going to let it slide. As for the door, it was hard to imagine why a door would be locked with a control panel right beside it that would open the door at the press of the right switch. It was like locking the car and leaving the keys hanging from the mirror.

But if there was no way to get any lower, no way to get to the Gondolas if this station even had one...

Montag glanced at Dirkins, who shook his head. "Only way Jonesy is going anywhere is in the passenger seat of a Warthog."

Montag glanced down at the radio he was pulling out of its duct-tape restraints. If the Covenant were giving chase, Sierra Squad could keep whatever lead they had by leaving Jonesy. Maybe it made him a worse leader than he'd been on Siberia Prime, but that wasn't an option he could consider.

Somewhere, "Get to the Pillar of Autumn" had become "Get the squad to the Pillar of Autumn".

"June, double check the doorways," he ordered. "Dirkins, stabilize Jonesy and help me with this radio."

* * *

**2059 Hours, Upper Deck of Beacon Tower**

The upper deck was surprisingly easy to walk on. It almost seemed as if the hundreds of liters of water that fell on it every few minutes was wicked away by some unknown property of the metal.

Montag wondered if the Covenant had copied that too.

"Stay low, keep out of the beam's light," he ordered Dirkins. The medic hunched down and slid to a stop behind Montag.

"You know what you're going to do?"

Montag nodded as he hooked up an external antenna to a handheld radio. "Yeah. I'm going to try to call the guys in the Warthog over a lightly encrypted channel on the off chance that they're still alive and the Covenant have no triangulation equipment. Then we're going to sit around and see if I'm right."

"Informative, but not what I was after. Why the Pillar of Autumn? What's so important about it that we have to march through a Covenant brigade to get there?"

"We're not going to march through them, we're going to march around them," Montag replied. "As for what we're doing there, that'll have to wait for the next staff meeting."

Dirkins opened his mouth, but Montag interrupted him. "I mean it. I'm going to tell you guys everything."

"Sierra Leader, contacting Sierra Recon," Montag spoke into the radio, cutting off Dirkins' protest. It wasn't proper military nomenclature, but the intended recipients would understand it. And presumably, the Covenant could pick up his signal. Elites and Grunts, it seemed, had a gift for languages, and the longer he could keep them confused...

"Sierra leader, this is Sierra Recon. We are inbound with seating for all," Liz replied, her voice flat and monotonous. "How are you all holding out?"

Montag raised his head and flashed Dirkins a thumbs up. The elation was short-lived: In the space between his thumb and his chin, where his head had been a heartbeat later, Montag saw a line of phosphorescence that was gone as soon as it appeared.

Combat instincts kicked into high gear. The sound of a stream of high velocity particles impacting against the tower to his left drowned out Liz's words, words which were cut off a syllable later as a second purple stream tunneled through the radio.

Muscles from Montag's back to his lower legs tensed, throwing him back against the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dirkins hit the deck too. Good reflexes for a combat medic.

The events of the past half second took a moment to coalesce in Montag's head. He was up against three Jackals with beam rifles-

A brilliant lance of gold light swept across the upper deck. It came within centimeters of Montag before it was intercepted by the parapet.

Correction: Jackal snipers with three beam rifles and at least one focus rifle.

"June, Jonesy," Montag ordered into his radio. "We've got Covenant outside. Do not exit the building, they've got snipers."

He rolled to his stomach and reached for the Rifle. A duel against three snipers was not going to make his day any better.

"Dirkins, get down to the lower levels and help those two. Crawl to the door, don't expose yourself. Understood?"

There was no reply.

Montag turned around, reluctantly confirming what he already knew. Dirkins was lying down, faced pressed against the deck. A hole had been drilled through his head just above the ear. The downpour was still cleaning out the exit wound.

* * *

**2105 Hours, Beacon Tower Interior**

At the far end of the underground section, the door to the outbuilding opened.

On receiving Montag's warning, June and Jonesy had assumed defensive positions. June couldn't drive a Ghost very well with one missing forearm, but if she sat the Ghost in one place and focused on hosing down anything that moved, she did well enough.

Jonesy got the other entrance, the ramp that lead to the outlying building. He had a Ghost too; it was powered down, ready to be used.

The engineer's near-death experience had brought an important life lesson. Life was short, and the credits could roll any minute. All those little things Jonesy had wanted to do and hadn't found time for couldn't wait for the sequel.

So, when an Elite burst through the door with a trio of Grunts in tow, Jonesy was ready with a quartet of plasma rifles duct-taped into pairs, arranged so that the vents were free to cool off and taped so that pulling one trigger would squeeze the other.

He had the advantage in firepower and a slight edge in surprise. Even though the bolts warped and joined as the overlapping magnetic fields melted into each other, they lost none of their lethality. The Elite's shields cracked almost instantly, and the rest of the shootout was equally one-sided.

"Clear," he breathed. "Montag, we got four down here... how many do you see?"

* * *

**2105 Hours, Upper Deck**

The radio had skidded to a halt right by Montag. The whole unit was powered down, and a certain fluid leaking from the bullet hole indicated that the battery itself had been ruptured. The reinforced antenna was intact, though, and that's what Montag was after.

Using the unit as a sort of shepherd's crook, he reached out and hooked Dirkins's helmet. A phosphorescent beam smacked into the deck, perhaps an attempt to dissuade Montag from whatever plan he was carrying out. He was safe, though; the only exposed area of the deck was around Dirkins, where the parapet ended for no good reason.

Montag examined the helmet. Battery pack was good, HMD and electronics were intact. There was a lot of blood and matter on the left side of the helmet, but it was otherwise perfect. Hopefully, the entertainment the Covenant watched had the same tired cliches that Hollywood used.

As he crammed the helmet onto the radio, Montag realized that what he had glibly identified as 'matter' was what had made Dirkins who he was. Blood and cell matter, DNA even. And those were neurons; had they constituted the memory of Dirkins's first bicycle ride? Memories of school vaccinations and doctors telling him why it had to hurt? The surgical training he'd taken in Basic?

Dirkins had been a repository, a small library of unique experiences and memories. Every human was, and the Covenant had the gall to destroy them en masse. Library of Alexandria writ large. Burning books a hundred thousand, a million at a time.

For the first time, Montag thought about what made humans special, worth fighting to save. At least more than mere speciesism.

With luck, the Jackals had seen him retrieve the helmet. As he raised it over the parapet and turned the antenna, he tried to make it clear that it was a helmet on a stick without making it obvious that he was trying to do so. Just raising someone else's helmet to draw fire while he prepared to make a run for it. The Jackals, obligingly, were withholding fire until Montag broke cover, too clever to be taken in by such a simple trick.

Montag let go of the antenna, pulled the memory card out of the HMD, and slid it into his helmet. He accessed the recording and rewound it to thirty seconds prior, freezing the video several times. A Covenant force, perhaps thirty-strong, were moving in on the tower. Among the triangular Grunts, stocky Elites, and the glowing shields of Jackals, Montag was positive he saw smaller figures, with faintly glowing monocles.

Two of four snipers advancing. Surprising; any competent commander would have left the snipers further out to support the main force. Somewhere like...

It was only visible for a second. Six hundred meters out, the flat side of a Grunt's methane rebreather caught the light from the beacon tower. And if Montag looked hard enough, he saw a faint purple dot nearby.

He rolled ten meters to the left, an act that would buy him a little more time. As the rainwater splashed his face, his mind worked furiously to plan the geometry of the counterattack. Cross the legs, get ready to pop up to a kneeling position. Bipod would swing up and come to a rest upon the parapet, scope would be in infrared mode.

There was a sort of awareness in the back of his mind that he was breaking all the rules governing sniper battles. They were often tedious affairs that could last for hours as each participant tried to break the nerve and patience of their opponent, seek advantage in minute details and diversions. You didn't break those rules to get an edge, you broke them and got killed.

Banishing the doubt from his mind, Montag sat up, linked the scope to his HMD. The world narrowed to a grassy knoll two-thirds of a kilometer out. Four red spots hovered at the edge of the hill, one brighter than the others. Jackal.

The actual calculations that went into the trajectory were guesswork and instinct. It just felt right, aiming into the wind, firing, falling back. He could visualize how the bullet would curve slightly, shearing through the air and leaving a path of disturbed raindrops in its wake. It would punch through the Jackal's body armor, the tungsten-cobalt jacket would fracture all along its length and jettison metallic splinters into the animal's body.

Montag replayed the shot on his HMD. Rainwater was splashing on his face, contrasting with the plasma bolts and particle beams rushing by overhead. He felt a thrill like an electric shock run through his body as he saw the Jackal's heat signature bloom at the mid-section.

A snap-shot at 623 meters. A record for him, a record for anyone he'd ever known personally. All to get the bastard who'd shot Dirkins.

Maybe.

He'd killed one of three suspects. In fact, if all three snipers had individually targeted Dirkins, Montag, and the radio, the one that missed might have been left behind to finish the job. The rest were with the main group, making a beeline for the tower.

But why hadn't they all stayed behind?

The sudden appearance of a Phantom descending from the skies, one intact gun scanning the deck, cut Montag's train of thought short. Snipers or no, he grabbed the Rifle and crawled for the door.

* * *

**2110 Hours, Beacon Tower Interior**

"I don't geddit," Jonesy said, turning a pair of plasma rifles over. "Why not have a bat... battery indicator on these?"

"Hmm?"

"Need to know how many shots are left... sooner or later. Why not put a counter on gun itself?"

The brief skirmish with intruders had quickly devolved into a grenade fight, none of which came close to the Marines. That left Jonesy and June back to back on their Ghosts, waiting for the next move.

That move was Montag's, running down the ramp from the upper deck.

"Is everyone alright?"

"Yeh. No new injuries."

"Perfect," Montag said, stripping equipment off the Ghost he'd been riding. "Dirkins is dead. A Jackal sniper got him."

June looked at Jonesy, not sure what to say. After all the work he'd done keeping the three present alive, his permanent absence seemed unreal.

"We did get in touch with the rest of the squad. They're alive, coming for us. We have to hold out long enough for them to get here."

"Yeah... can do," Jonesy breathed. "How many Cov'nent are out there?"

"Twenty seven, not counting the ones that snuck up to the base and the reinforcements that the Phantom is dropping off. They're running for this tower, going to try and storm us. We're going to have to meet them head-on," Montag said, ripping the last of the duct-tape off the Ghost. The M7057 he'd salvaged from the Pelican gleamed in the dull light, beady little insect eyes painted on the heat shield. "Go up there and show them the true meaning of terror."

Jonesy and June shuddered. That phrase had sounded like something out of a bad action movie. But the way Montag's slight accent had gotten thicker, as if he had almost said it in another language, was downright unnerving.

"There's only a few ways a small force of wounded soldiers are able to repel a larger force, when fighting from fortification," Montag explained. He was clearly talking to himself, drawing on past experience to formulate a plan of attack.

"Discounting artillery and air support, it's a battle of snipers and machine guns until the attackers press the issue. Given avenues of attack and entrance from all sides with no cover for the attackers, as well as limited air support and reinforcements for the defenders, it's impossible for a group our size to defend from exposed emplacements. We'd be undermanned or blind from at least one direction.

After checking the defoliator and its ammunition canisters, Montag had pooled plasma and fragmentation grenades and started assembling satchel charges, duct-taping them in groups of three and adding a folded loop for a handle.

"Best thing to do would be to knock out some of the walls in the building. Create chokepoints from which one can defend and retreat, using the familiarity of the terrain to one's advantage. Since that's not an option in our case, leaving us open to simply being overwhelmed, and we have select weapons on hand, option two is to launch a limited counterattack, intimidate with shock and awe, and then retreat."

He clipped the two improvised satchel charges to his belt, where they clanked against a refill canister for the defoliator.

"Let me get this straight," June said. "You're planning on assaulting a force of thirty Covies and a dropship with a flamethrower?"

"Essentially," Montag agreed. "They're split up, the main group and the reinforcements. Where you two come in is distraction. That Phantom has only one working gun, and I need you guys to draw it away while I take the reinforcements."

"What, that's all?" Jonesy asked. The false bravado didn't suit someone who was wearing a miniaturized oxygen mask.

"Aside from needle carbines, beam rifles, and a focus rifle, yes. Leave on my mark." He took the shoulder strap from the defoliator and adjusted it until it was comfortable.

"And what do we do," June interrupted. "About the fact that Jonesy's... sedated, and I've got one arm?"

"You're a distraction, June. Engage the Phantom and retreat, get yourselves clear of the ground forces." Montag started for the exit, paused, and turned to his comrades. "Take care, you two. We've got a restaurant to open, when this is all over."

The flamethrower was not a weapon of war. It was a weapon of fear. It may have its uses in denying room to maneuver to enemies and in clearing out bunkers. But at the end of the day, it only existed because a soldier had once stuck his head out a foxhole, glared at the machine gun nest pinning his platoon down, and decided that shooting, stabbing, bludgeoning, and artillery were too good of a death for the little bastards.

One of the animals out there had killed Dirkins. Fire was too kind a death for it. Were it alone, Montag would have cornered it, torched the legs, arms, and then the torso. But it sought strength in numbers, whichever one it was, and Montag would have to rely on the tactics that Siberia Prime had taught him. Shock and awe. Show it the true meaning of terror.

He needed a gas mask. Just for old time's sake.

Montag reached up and put a thumb under the gauze circling his head. Gently, he pulled it up, under his helmet, off his head. For the first time in hours, cool air brushed against his right eye.

At the top of the ramp, the door swished open. Cool air rushed in, the rain granting it a clean, slightly musty smell. The smell of wet grass and evergreens.

If he were a dog, Montag figured he'd be able to smell _them_ too. His right eye, accustomed to darkness, picked out the silhouettes of fifteen Covenant, their wet armor gleaming with reflected beacon-light. They had taken cover behind the HVAC-like modules that littered the deck between the door and the Phantom.

"G'evenin', gents," Montag said, flipping the safety on the flamethrower. "Stop, drop, and die."

Without bothering to aim, Montag squeezed the trigger. Power was restored to an electric motor which almost immediately revved to 5,000 RPM. On the other side of a short driveshaft and a transmission, a pump drew liquid pyrosene out of the fuel canister and out the M7057's nozzle. An electronic igniter sparked, and the heavy spray of hydro-chlorocarbons became a torrent of Hellfire.

The first blast flowed around a lance that had been advancing toward the door. Where there had been two Elites and a trio of Jackals, there were now five screaming pillars of fire.

Montag turned to the rest of the Covenant. The Grunts were panicking, cutting down on his targets. Judging from the look of terminal shock, they'd been prepared for anything but a flamethrower-wielding, teeth-baring avatar of death. They would've been more frightened, possibly, if they'd known what a smile was supposed to be.

The Covenant dove for cover behind the modules, the ones not clustered beneath the Phantom at least. Montag fired over the modules, letting the heat and the overspray drive them out of cover. In seconds, a wall of flame between him and the Phantom rose to the sky, fighting the beacon for luminous supremacy.

By this time, the Covenant had adjusted to the new threat and were countering. Montag was forced to move and duck for cover as plasma bolts whizzed by, drawing the flames into helical contrails. More dangerous were the needles, fired at random. Some were mere flickers of motion that shattered against the wall behind Montag, most were the ominously slow kind. Curiously, they all seemed to be coming from the Elites.

Turning to the left, Montag fired again. He couldn't easily see the Covenant through the screen of fire and steam, the Covenant couldn't see him, but he could see the ramp and the Grunts racing up it. The Covenant's best chance for victory was for the reinforcements to leave the deck, get to medium range, and pick him off. Hemmed in by a small wall of fire, unable to escape, their survival was much less certain.

Unfortunately, if the Covenant couldn't see him, they could make an educated guess. He'd barely heard the triple explosion of a group of Grunts catching fire when a burst of blue plasma bolts caught him in the chest and upper arm. With a yelp of pain, Montag dropped to the deck.

Dumbfounded, he stared at the shallow craters in his breastplate where ceramic had vaporized. The acute burning sensation beneath was lost in the adrenaline rush. All he could do was stare at the steam rising from the burns and tell himself that plasma rifles couldn't do that.

Something clicked, and the sniper glanced up at the blue bolts racing overhead. Faster, larger, and more streamlined than the typical plasma rifle projectiles. Memories of Reach bubbled to the forefront of his consciousness, of Elites wielding nasty little guns the Corps had dubbed "Repeaters".

"Oh no," he cursed, reaching for the flamethrower. "Not those things again."

The suppressive fire had diminished. Perhaps they were running low on ammo, maybe they were waiting for him to give his position away. Dangerous, playing a waiting game against a flamethrower. Hell, they were all within range, whether he could see them or not.

Something wasn't adding up.

He dropped the defoliator, pulled a Jackal shield gauntlet off his belt and clasped it on his wrist.

The wall of fire was noticeably reduced, but still burning strong. Within five meters of the conflagration, the radiant heat became intolerable. As he tossed the first satchel charge into the middle of the inferno and activated the shield, Montag briefly wondered if the grenades would hit the deck before cooking off.

A single explosion went off, rather than the typical triple-thump. A blue flash overpowered the flames, outgrew them, pushed them aside. The blast wave squeezed the pyrosene off the deck, and the plasma incinerated what was left. Gobs of burning liquid fell for dozens of meters in all directions, splattering against the shield and weakening it.

Montag dropped the shield and unshouldered the Rifle. All that separated him from his prey now were sparse puddles of fire and ten meters of dull red-hot metal. Calling up the scope view on his HMD, he picked out his targets. No need for magnification, barely needed to aim at thirty meters. It was a point-and-click job.

The first one to go down was the red with the plasma repeater. It was patting the fire off its gun arm when the bullet struck its chest and went clean through. The next one had been fumbling with a blocky weapon of uncertain design when it spied Montag.

A lance of golden light shot out of the weapon. It didn't even come close to Montag, but that was the strength of the weapon. The focus rifle could be walked onto targets and drive them into cover. The beam was highly visible, delivered painful cuts and gashes from glancing hits, and easily created suppressing fire. A weapon of fear, like the flamethrower, but not a weapon of war. Case in point, Montag shot the Elite before it could correct its aim.

Something in the back of his mind was still nagging him, insisting that he was missing something. As he settled the reticule over a fleeing Jackal, the glint off the alien's beam rifle was the final clue.

Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Montag lowered the rifle and shot the Jackal in the thigh.

There were no reinforcements. The Phantom wasn't dropping troops off, it was picking them up. They weren't even bothering to finish off a lone Human soldier before evacuating.

Running.

Escaping.

Blood boiling, Montag slung the Rifle across his back and began to run. The clear area where he'd thrown the grenade bundle had cooled down from the rain, at least enough for Montag to run across it without ruining a new pair of boots.

The Jackal was crawling to the Phantom, which had just loaded the last of the troops. Blood was gushing out of the wound, likely from a severed artery. Slowly, it seemed to weigh its options, and realized that the gravity lift was too far to make it, especially since the dropship was beginning to take off. The alien spun in its own diluted blood and reached for the beam rifle.

The heat from the fires on each side was nearly unbearable. Each breath Montag took felt like he was inhaling hot smoke, the acrid mixture of unburned pyrosene and steam. A handful of dead bodies littered his path, rendered unrecognizable by the fire and the explosion. Montag vaulted over them and the modules that blocked his path, passing into the ten meters of open deck between him and the Phantom

The Jackal had taken the beam rifle in both hands and unsteadily raised it to aim at him. Montag was close enough to give the rifle a kick, and the stream of heavy particles hissed past his shoulder harmlessly and gouged a hole in the Phantom's underside. He grabbed the barrel, forcing the gun away from him while he pulled the knife out of its sheath.

The Jackal fired again, overloading the weapon. Rainwater along the barrel flashed into steam. Pain lanced across his hand even through the gloves Montag was wearing, but the gun was out of commission for a few seconds.

With the precious seconds gained from that distraction, the Jackal tried to seize the initiative and reached for its plasma pistol. That came to an abortive halt when Montag slid the Knife into its left eye socket and out the right. Using the Knife as a handle, Montag hauled the Jackal to its feet and pulled it out. The Knife clattered to the deck as Montag fished the last bundle of grenades from his belt and looped it around the Jackal's neck.

"You're not leaving," Montag hissed over the Jackal's shrieks. "None of you are."

The Phantom was turning to leave when Montag kicked the animal into the flickering gravity lift, and Montag followed suit. For a few moments, the Jackal was suspended in the purple shaft, a bundle of blue light hanging from its neck. Its wailing only ceased when it disappeared into the dropship.

A heartbeat later, the Phantom erupted. It seemed to be suspended on a pillar of flame for a millisecond before the sides gave out. Twin broadside volleys of armor, Covenant, and plasma heralded the Phantom's departure into the hereafter. It crashed into the deck, crumpled, and rolled off the edge, the thunderous sound of buckling and tearing metal came to a halt as the Phantom did on the ground below.

Walking back to the parapet, Montag glared at the burning hulk, trying to feel some sort of triumph. The satisfaction wouldn't come. Dirkins had been worth more than a score of Covenant.

He winced. There it was. It wasn't about fighting for justice or the survival of the Human Race. It was about revenge for Dirkins, Lincoln, Morris, Mirsky, Petrol, Siberia Prime, and a thousand other injustices. Losses that had left an emptiness no amount of dead Covenant could fill.

With a shrug, Montag came to the same conclusion he had reached on the Autumn so long ago. He turned back toward the beacon tower, ready to contact the others.

The Elite caught his eye. It was slowly breathing, not quite dead yet. It met Montag's gaze, communicating its hatred and frustration with a look that transcended species boundaries. And if the twitching of its good arm was any indication, it was trying to reach its weapon.

The weapon in question was the one that had fired a beam like a focus rifle, but was otherwise quite dissimilar. Rather than the ornate curves and insectoid carapaces that usually adorned Covenant weaponry, this one had a silvery, utilitarian look to it. Closer to the aesthetics of the Ringworld.

It was another thing the Covenant had imitated. Poking around in the ruins of races long departed, mimicking what they couldn't understand themselves. And when true innovators were encountered, they declared genocide. It made sense, from a survival standpoint: races that relied on imitating the innovations of others would soon be surpassed by a new race of innovators, no matter what the head start. It was self-preservation, doubtfully anything more than instinct.

Montag pinned the Elite's hand under one boot and picked up the weapon. After a brief search for a firing mechanism, the golden beam stabbed into the Elite's wrist and traced its way up the arm. Twitching the beam into curlicues and doubling back on the wounds, Montag admired how much faster the weapon cut through armor, compared to the focus rifle.

He twitched the weapon, slicing the animal's neck open and letting the beam come to rest on its face, rapidly burning a hole through to the deck.

"Montag?"

If it called him by name, it wasn't an enemy. Usually.

June was struggling up the ramp, with Jonesy slung across her back in a fireman's carry. She paused where the fire had been smothered by the grenades, unwilling to go on.

"Is Jonesy alright?"

"No, he caught some needles and slid off the Ghost and... I had to go over and help. I couldn't leave him there."

At Montag's urging, she passed the fire and walked to the far end of the deck where she laid Jonesy and begun checking his burns and cuts. "He's not going to leave this place, Gui."

Montag blinked at the echo of what he'd said earlier, then shoved it out of his mind. "How many more Covenant are out there?"

She looked up from adjusting Jonesy's helmet, trying to keep rainwater off his face. "There were about twenty clustered around the tower. We fought our way through them before drawing the Phantom's fire. Couldn't have killed more than ten of them. And the-"

"So, there's at least ten left," Montag concluded, getting to his feet.

"What, business as usual?" she snarled. Where uncertainty and grief had shown on her face, there was only anger now. "All you've cared about since we landed on this ring is how many aliens you kill. That's how you keep bashing your head in, Gui. That's why I lost my arm! That's why Jonesy's one big wreck!"

"Hey, when I know that nothing is going to shoot me when I'm on my knees-"

"Jonesy shouldn't have been out there!"

"Dirkins was dead, and the Covenant were evacuating!"

"_You just threw Jonesy away for revenge, Montag!" _she was screaming now, loud enough that a small lance of pain darted behind his eye.

"_I thought that the damn Phantom was dropping reinforcements, June! It was attack or be over-"_

The shouting match was interrupted by a gunshot and the distant crack of an APHE bullet hitting the tower. Montag had the Handgun halfway out of its holster before his brain registered the report as an M6D shot.

"Hey, guys, quit talking... about me like I'm dead," Jonesy whispered over the radio. "And I was dead already, June. You knew it, Dirkins knew it... Montag knew it, and I had... some strong suspicions."

Montag knelt down with June, seeing for the first time that Jonesy's breath mask was flecked with droplets of blood.

"Montag... did you at least get the one... that killed Dirkins?" he asked.

"Yeah. Did you see the Phantom crash? One way or another, the sniper was on that dropship."

Jonesy closed his eyes and nodded his head.

"And that's enough for you two?" June asked. "They kill one of us, we kill ten of them and call it even?"

"No, June... if I had my druthers, I'd... die of old age as... as the owner of construction company in the inner... colonies." The engineer shook his head. "Guess I'll take what I can get, though."

"Keep talking, Jonesy," Montag said. He signaled for June to watch his back and rested the Rifle on the parapet. Squinting through the rain, he hunted for targets, and then paused.

"June, where did you leave the Ghosts?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you earlier," she replied. "They're gone."

That left an uneasy feeling in the air. Not 'recaptured', not 'destroyed'. Those were simple outcomes, self-explanatory and easy to adjust to. 'Gone' was an unknown element.

"Remember the teleporter you and Morris used under the base? I saw something like that when Jonesy's Ghost disappeared. Big yellow flash."

That left too many questions for comfort. If the Ringworld had a full teleportation system, was it the Ringworld's defenses or the Covenant who had taken the Ghosts? Montag could only speculate as to the motivations of aeons-old machinery, but if the Covenant had gained access to the teleportation system, why hadn't they simply teleported Sierra Squad into a closed room with several pairs of Hunters? Even with the Elite's skewed sense of honor, it didn't make sense. And if they were evacuating infantry, why bother with the Phantom?

"June, go round up some needlers. If they can teleport, they might try to warp troops in right on top of us."

June nodded, kept her questions to herself, and set off across the deck, looking for Covenant who hadn't been char-broiled.

"If they can... why would th... they bother with a Phantom?" Jonesy asked.

"Good question," Montag admitted as something caught his eye. "Could be that they can't teleport organics, or maybe they're limited on how much mass they can move at a time."

"Yeah... or if th' teleporters can't... adjust for momentum... and they're being warped across Halo..."

"Right," Montag said, smiling at the image that presented. "If they tried to recall infantry that way, the relative velocity would be hundreds of meters per second. Doesn't matter if you're denying egress to the enemy, but infantry might as well take chances."

Out of the corner of his eye, Montag saw something running. From the direction of the outbuilding, a red Elite was charging across open ground toward the beacon tower, dashing through dirty snow that refused to melt, no matter how much soot fell on it. At least, Montag reflected as he took aim, it was a pretty sure way to commit suicide.

Crack!

The Elite's shields flared and died, bringing the Elite to a stumbling halt. It dodged behind a large mass that could have been a wrecked BEV-R.

Crack!

The Elite keeled over and died.

"Nine left!" Montag shouted to June. For a long time, he stared at the Elite as its blood pooled in a puddle of fuel from the BEV-R, both liquids freezing in the wind.

Where had he seen this before? Takharot Interchange?

"Any sight of the others?" Jonesy asked.

For a moment, Montag tore himself back to the present. He wasn't making a last stand with Petrol and Rozi. They were gone. Siberia Prime was gone.

And there was Jonesy. Barely hanging on to life, the water around him wicking the blood away. He had to be cold.

"So, you said you wanted to run a construction company?" Montag asked, hoping that Jonesy wouldn't realize he was changing the subject. Seventy hours before, he might have had the detachment necessary to tell Jonesy that he would probably die before Sierra Squad regrouped. Now, the best he could do was dodge the question, resolve to punish the Covenant for killing a unique human being, and ignore the hypocrisy.

"Yeah," Jonesy coughed. "My dad... was a contractor. Before I was transferred... to the Corps, I'd sneak out with some friends. Take a Pelican and BEV-R... help him with the night construction."

He laughed, which died down to a chuckle and then a coughing fit. "God... it's cold."

_Put me down, I'd rather die..._

Montag accidentally squeezed off a shot. The Rifle's stock slammed into his shoulder, a minor rebuke for wasting ammo.

"Another one?" June called. She was awkwardly perched over an Elite, looting purple crystals from its armor. For not having much time to adjust to a missing arm, she was doing a great job. At the very least, she was trying.

"Yeah, Grunt," Montag lied. He glanced at the outbuilding, expecting to see a few more Covenant. He wasn't disappointed. Another Elite was making a run for it, too simpleminded or impatient to search around and find the passage that lead from the outbuilding to the beacon tower. To its credit, it had gotten much further than its predecessor.

Crack!

The flicker of collapsing shields failed to appear. A new hole appeared in the Elite's chest, and a geyser of blood spewed out the other side. It stumbled and kept running.

Montag frowned and switched off the infrared filter on his HMD as he reloaded the Rifle.

It was the same Elite he'd shot earlier. Same red armor glinting in the light from the beacon, with two bullet holes in the chest.

He snorted, mentally kicking himself for wasting ammunition on his hallucinations. He'd had them on and off for three years, and he'd prided himself on being able to sort real from imagined through reason. He just had to keep it up for another few hours.

Montag glanced over at Jonesy. The Shadow was hunched against the wall, staring back. Even with the gas mask, Montag could tell it was grinning.

Jonesy, on the other hand, was fiddling with the... for the sake of argument, Montag decided to start referring to the builders of the Ringworld as "Firstborn". Jonesy was fiddling with the Firstborn gun, trying to find a good way to hold it. It was hard to tell, but Jonesy had the look of a youngster that had found a particularly unusual bug.

"Neat, huh?" Montag asked. "Took that one off a dead Elite. I think they raided an armory somewhere around here."

Jonesy's eyes shifted and widened in surprise. Montag followed his line of sight and saw the Elite racing up the ramp.

Wait. The Engineer couldn't actually see the Elite... it was all imaginary. All in Montag's head. All of his illusions were obviously out of place and context: concrete rubble under blue skies, dead bodies wearing Siberia Prime Civil Defense greatcoats years after they had been issued, insurrectionist gear where no humans had been before, some nearly-mythical wraith assuming the appearance of a SPCD officer. And as far as the real and unreal went, the walking corpse of an Elite certainly belonged in the latter category.

As the hallucination in question darted around the wall of fire and charged across the deck, Montag's certainty wavered. Impossibilities aside, had he ever seen anything like that? The yellowed, leathery look of the flesh? The closest he could get was the way that dead Covenant looked, three days after being gassed with Theric in a warm environment.

"Montag," June screamed. _"Montag, shoot it!"_

Both Montag and Jonesy snapped out of their stupor and opened fire. Jonesy missed, corrected, and slashed across the Elite. Montag saw the left hand take the brunt of the beam's damage and separate from the arm, trailing gunk and what could have been tendons.

At this range with an anti-materiel rifle, Montag would have normally opted for a shot to the torso. Something, perhaps the fact that this Elite had already taken three such shots, prompted him to try a headshot.

_Crack!_

The bullet hit the alien dead-on and split the head into three sections. The top piece, consisting of everything north of the eyes, tore off and was lost in the night. Most of the flesh was shucked off the other two parts, baring rotting muscle and bone.

That didn't stop the Elite. With two thirds of its head and upper neck dangling from stringy ligaments, mandibles flexing convulsively, it leaped the last 15 meters.

It was barely airborne when it was intercepted by a stream of pink needles. The alien disappeared in a pink flash, and suddenly rain wasn't the only thing falling from the sky.

The patter of raindrops and chunks of flesh was deafening. The three Marines could hardly hear themselves think coherently, and the subject of the unkillable undead didn't lend itself to rational thought in the first place.

"Dead..." Jonesy breathed, breaking the spell.

"It was already dead!" Montag shouted. "I shot it four times! I- it just kept running with the- can't even-"

From the door Montag had come through not ten minutes before, half a dozen corpses in worse shape than the first one spilled out, milled around, and then spied the Marines huddling at the far end of the deck. The heads were hanging limply, with eyes blind and mandibles flexing uselessly, as if the head and neck had become a vestigial limb.

The tendrils growing out of the aliens' chest, however, ceased their random undulation and fixated on the Marines.

From their experience with the first one, the Marines were expecting a mass charge. What they weren't expecting was the screaming, dead voices giving blood-freezing shrieks that raised answering calls from the forest around the beacon tower.

Montag sighted on the one in back. It cradled a plasma repeater within one hand, and its armor was mostly intact if ill-fitting on its bloated body. As it stepped out into the beacon's light, Montag saw that something had grown out of the swollen shoulder, burst through the underarmor and coiled around the arms.

_Crack!_

The thing's head exploded. Tendrils of muscle unraveled and slapped against its chest, dripping dirty yellow sludge. Montag's blood froze as the corpse seized the tendrils and pulled them out. Unfazed, it raised the plasma repeater in its free arm.

_Crack!_

The bullet went through the Elite's shoulder, leaving a hole Montag could see through. It threw off the stream of plasma bolts headed Montag's way, but the thing recovered and-

_What was wrong?_

_Crack!_

Another had stumbled into the path of the bullet as it caught the blast from June's needler. When the interloper fell to its knees, Montag saw that his target was lying down, torso bent awkwardly where a shot to the heart had passed low and taken a chunk out of the spinal cord.

Propped up on one arm amid the clouds of steam-like Theric, still trying to aim the repeater- _oh, God, why wasn't it dead yet? _Theric was nerve gas, contact killer, it should be paralyzed, muscle spasms until they froze in the wind-

_Crack!_

The bullet entered at the lower neck and went through the abomination lengthwise. Montag ejected the magazine, sought out a new one. The corpse was down, twitching like the gas had finally got to it. Only it couldn't die, it needed more bullets.

Shoot the arms, legs, slow them down. That's what the last rational part of his mind seemed to be telling him in that bitter tone the Shadow always used. Slow them down enough for June to finish off with her needler, or Petrol with his shotgun.

Something slammed against his boot, spooking Montag enough to miss the port and slam the magazine against the Rifle's trigger guard. It was a needle rifle, thrown to him by the same woman screaming his name. Inflection was wrong for a Siberian, could be that ODST they'd picked up in the Sinoviet apartment complex... June? Winters?

Montag grabbed it, let the Rifle clatter to the pavement. Three shots to a kaboom, kind of like the BR-55s that his unit had been issued.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

One of them was ripped apart, sent flying backwards with its spine and ribs exposed for all to see. Waste of flesh, but they weren't good to eat after exposure to Theric or Andromeda. It was a choice of letting citizens die from hunger or be overrun by the Covenant.

Another one slithered forward, tentacles growing out of its hands and spilling out its mouth. Tricky, playing dead just like a Grunt with ropes of fungus consuming its body.

_Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!_

He fumbled with the weapon, trying to actuate the select-fire switch. He'd left the BR-55 on single-shot mode, and this situation called for three-round bursts, if not full auto. The sniper stared at the needles projecting from the receiver, trying to piece it together, when more screams broke his concentration.

The abominations had surged out into the open, past the cloud of Theric and the remains of the firewall. Three people couldn't hold them off, and there was nowhere to run, because some idiot designer fifty years ago had thought that elevated walkways and terraces were a bold design statement, never mind that the winds would chill pedestrians to the bone, or that ice buildup would be an omnipresent hazard, or that defenders would get pinned between alien invaders and a ten meter drop when the fallback plans went awry.

His fault.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Drilled into him, like a young engineer being taught a trade language. Operational success depended on every soldier involved, but rested first and foremost on the shoulders of the commanding officer. He'd just gone and got his soldiers lost, divided, cornered.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Body parts and giblets were raining down on the marines, debris from the needler explosions going off like firecrackers and poppers on a colony's Foundation Day. Pink explosions destroyed the corpses, tore nearby abominations off their feet, and yet they still kept running, driven by an animalistic rage and emboldened by the knowledge that they couldn't die, not forever.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Animals. They were animals, animals he once had the power of life and death over. Shoot them from a kilometer away, gas them from five hundred, burn them at close range. Trap them, corral them, cull them, stack them, sort them. This one goes to ONI, this one goes to the kitchens, this one gets taken back alive. Sport for the reservists, trophy to hang out and warn the rest of the animals. Cattle, cattle that could shoot back. That's what he'd been, the keystone, the man who fought fire with fire, wielded terror and brutality so that citizens behind him would never have it visited upon them. Hole up in Lublanska Municipal District, wait to be relieved, only few days, week, two weeks away. No more than three, we promise.

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

Brutality, necessity, only animals. Swore not to stop, even if they do, and they had, they'd gone and stopped dying. But if they hadn't just stopped dying, but started walking.

The cold shivers slowed, spread through him like frost across bare steel. There'd been that gray Elite he'd killed with a shot to the chest, came back and cracked Montag's head with his own grenades. He'd laughed it off then, but it had been the first. Five rows of three hundred notches were scratched into the Rifle's stock, more on the Knife and the Handgun... If they started walking again...

He shuddered. There were gravestones out there that he desperately wanted left unturned.

One of them, fungal muscles bursting from the skin on its arms and chest, survived. The head was folded back, melting into the skin like it was no more than a yoke, a sack of nutrients to be absorbed, but fuzzy tendrils like spider legs grew from its chest, fixating on Montag as it loped toward him.

_Crack! Crack! Click._

_Click._

_Click._

The needles burst, and more sickly yellow blood, pus really, flowed from the corpse's endless supply. Some part of Montag, the practical part, tossed the needle rifle aside and pulled the Handgun out of its holster. He flicked the sensor capsule under the muzzle, and a bright targeting laser danced across the corpse's chest. He squeezed the trigger as fast as he could, the small eruptions of pus following the jittery path of the laser. By the time the last bullet had been fired, the thing finally lay still.

Eyes closed, Montag drew out another clip. Hand found hand, slid it in, racked the slide back and forth. Had to be his nightmares, his hallucinations masking what was really out there. Or maybe all of the Ringworld was one long dream, an escape from the fact that he'd been beaten over the head by a once-friend and left to die as the Covenant began to glass Reach.

Reality is what remains behind when you closed your eyes and stopped believing in it.

Montag opened his eyes.

The Shadow crouched before him, a sharp contrast to the white brick wall behind it.

Well then.

As he glanced past the Shadow, Montag saw that the cracks had grown since the last time he'd been here, branching up from uncertain ground. As he slid over and fell on his side, his helmet fell off and bounced off the hard ground. He could hear the battle raging beyond the wall, hear June screaming. This time, he was still clad in full armor, and yet he felt more vulnerable than before. While he sat here, trapped by his own private world, those abominations would overrun Jonesy and June, and then...

He'd killed so many Covenant, the bulk of them on Siberia Prime. A lifetime ago. They'd had time enough to plan their vengeance.

"Strange," the Shadow mused. "Here we are, the stage set and our roles memorized. We both know that I'm going to urge you to take the tactically sound, yet morally reprehensible route of abandoning the Marine and the Engineer. Put as much distance behind you as you can in the time they buy you. I'm the one who will rationalize it as triage, noting that the other two are in no position to retreat or hold them off."

Montag pushed himself to his feet, started probing the cracks, pushing against the wall to see how much give there was.

"I'm the one who will point out that this isn't merely survival, this is completing our mission. And we both know how tempting that offer is, because somewhere in here, you were already planning it."

The wall sagged when he put all of his weight against it. Harsh daylight shone through the spreading cracks, welcoming him back, beckoning him to tear down the rest of the wall and rejoin Humanity.

"Yet, ultimately, you're going to play the hero. We both know it."

Outside, there was a harsh universe indifferent to human concepts such as justice and innocence. But it was still a hell of a lot better than building a wall and locking himself in with himself.

"And that begs the question: why am I bothering with this?"

Montag halted, feeling the cold shivers return. The answer was rooted in who the Shadow was. Achingly familiar and just off enough to make the identity unknown. Yet, Montag had the feeling that he didn't _want_ to know.

He stepped back and slammed his shoulder into the wall, almost free.

"Aren't you tired of fighting for lost causes?"

That, Montag reflected as he gave the wall one final kick, was the beautiful thing about it. Unnecessary, justifiable either way. And yet, without a doubt, saving his fellow Marines was the right thing to do.

* * *

**2118 Hours, Upper Deck**

June didn't get a good look at the thing. She heard Montag shooting his S2AM, heard him shout that he was shooting at a Grunt. She shrugged it off, went back to prying a needler caddy out of an Elite's ammunition pack as Montag went back to shooting the Covenant.

When she saw something running in her peripheral vision, she turned to get a good look. At her angle, the thing was mostly hidden behind the modules that littered the deck. There were, however, only a few candidates, and 'Stocky with red armor' generally meant 'Elite'.

Except Montag wasn't shooting.

June turned around even more and got a close look at Montag, or rather, the look of absolute, mind-numbing terror on his face. She'd seen it before, seen Liz wear that same expression on her first and only orbital insertion. Seen her sister sit there in her pod, unable to key the release. She'd held up half of the platoon until Sergeant 'Just' DeWitt had climbed out of his pod and dropped Liz's HEV manually.

"Montag," June called. "Montag, _shoot it!"_

That seemed to break the spell. Too late, really. June had her needler up and tracking the Elite, punching out pink seekers one at a time, counting up to seven.

She lost count after Montag finally fired, scoring a headshot. Not out of the ordinary, but how the Elite kept running, _jumping_ after its braincase had been turned into a bowl of macaroni definitely was. That became academic as soon as the seventh needle made contact. The pink explosion ripped the Elite apart like a dog's chew toy, plucked it out of the air and threw it sideways until it crashed against the parapet.

"I thought you shot it!" June yelled. Stupid question, stupid answer. Montag seemed to be answering in the affirmative, except he was sputtering, tripping over his own tongue.

That too became academic as the door opened and a dozen Elites poured out. June turned the needler on the one in front and wondered why its silhouette was off. Then it stepped into the beacon light.

June hadn't seen a naked Elite before, not in real life. She'd seen pictures of them, back in Basic when an ONI rep had given her class the 'Big Damn Briefing'. "This is what they look like under that armor, all this here, here, up there, and down here is solid muscle, shoot it right here to hit the vital organs."

This Elite had muscles stacked on its muscles, bulging out of the shoulders and the legs. Its skin was the color of the fungus that grows in dead trees, stretched tight over the muscles and hanging loose and mottled everywhere else. The alien looked diseased, like some terminal infection had started around that gaping hole in its chest and spread out to the rest of its body.

_Onetwothreefourfivesixseven!_

June let off the trigger. Seven needles sailed through the air, their own purple glow overpowered by the beacon. They sunk into the Elite's chest in rapid succession, detonated, vaporized its torso.

_Onetwothreefourfivesixseven!_

Another one bounded over the modules, clad in blue armor everywhere except its chest. It shared the same sort of swollen, seeping wound as the first, up and just to the left of where the sternum would be in a human. It also met the same fate as the first one.

In desperation, June dropped her empty needler and picked up the needle rifle she'd taken from Dirkins, may he rest in peace. A quick check confirmed that she could not, in fact, hold it in one hand and balance it on her left arm, not if she wanted to hit anything. She flipped it around, caught it by the muzzle, and slid it across the deck to Montag.

"Cover me! I'm reloading!"

The distinctive crack-hissing of the needle rifle confirmed that Montag had heard her, a huge relief. Like she realized back when they came off the Gondola fighting, she could still handle a needler but reloading was a problem. She took the pile of needler caddies, spread them out, stood them upright, cursed how the rain seemed to make everything a struggle.

She picked the needler up again, lined it up with one of the caddies, and slammed it down. For an agonizing second, there was nothing, and then the internal mechanism took hold of the ammo. There was the distinctive _schick-schuck_ of the needles separating and extending, and she was ready to fire.

_Onetwothreefourfivesixseven!_

The closest was crawling toward her, scrambling over severed limbs and its own limp head. It was some small shock when she saw that hits legs weren't just broken, but missing. How it was still moving, let alone conscious after an injury like that was a complete mys-

She abandoned that train of thought. What was, simply was. Jonesy was in peril, Rose, Kanoff, and Liz were unaccounted for. June squeezed the trigger until the thing was consumed by a pink explosion. The next one dodged around the explosion, was sliced across the chest by Jonesy's focus beam, and fell to the ground. June lined the needler up and fired nine needles at it before it could recover. That left the next closest one, a more or less intact specimen minus some armor. It was lunging across the modules, leaping into the air with something uncoiling from its arm.

Elites. They were all Elites. Somehow, that simple observation made them all the more terrifying. These abominations, broken and decayed, were survivors of something that had utterly consumed the lesser species they had commanded. Something had taken them to the brink of death and left them in a state of suicidal madness. Such an existence would be too much for the Marines to hope for.

June awoke from her stupor, found the needler empty and the corpse still coming for her. Five needles were stuck in its chest, not enough to finish the job. Too late, she slammed the needler down on a caddy, knocked it over, slammed it down on the next one as the Elite landed beside her.

Three long tentacles had grown out of the Elite's palm, rupturing and then melding with the skin. These whiplike tentacles were slashing toward her neck, serrated barbs winking in the beacon light.

They were promptly intercepted by the barrel of a needle rifle.

Behind June, Montag pivoted around the creep, letting the thing's momentum and death grip on the rifle do the work for him. Once it was clear of June, he let go of the weapon and retrieved the plasma repeater he'd dropped seconds earlier. The corpse stumbled and rolled another couple of meters, hissing all the way. It rolled to its feet, cocked the needle rifle as if it meant to throw it.

And died as the plasma grenade adhered to the stock went off.

"Go, protect Jonesy!" Montag shouted, somehow determined to hold off the flood of corpses with a turbocharged plasma rifle. He clarified before June could protest. "I'm going after the defoliator!"

June nodded, pinned the needler under her bad arm, scooped up the ammo with her good arm, and retreated to the edge of the deck.

If Jonesy had looked bad before, he looked worse now. The engineer was lying on his back with his head propped up against the parapet, trying to aim down the focus beam on his chest. It was a futile gesture; even if the weapon was stronger than its Covenant knockoff, it wasn't going to kill the creeps any faster than Montag's sniper rifle. The way he was firing intermittently wasn't helping, only barely keeping it from overheating. The whole thing was glowing red, with steam pouring off it. How couldn't he feel that?

Allowing herself the luxury of pitying him, Da Vega sat down beside him and lined up the ammo.

* * *

**2122 Hours, Under Beacon Tower's Spinward Tine**

The wounds inflicted by a plasma rifle were technically burns. When the skin was burned to ash, the water vaporized and left a crater. The skin would often take the brunt of the damage, and leave the underlying muscle intact with third-degree burns.

Standing over a recently re-dead corpse, Montag saw a lot of holes with charred bone at the bottom. The repeater was just that powerful.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another one duck behind the modules. When the initial assault had proved futile, it seemed that... they had changed pace. Dropped the berserker rage, wait the Marines out.

Completely uncharacteristic for Elites. And that's what they were. All of them.

Something had changed them. It wasn't biological, couldn't be a biological weapon or virus. That was just too Hollywood. Some sort of chemical weapon was more likely. A blister agent would explain the skin, while nerve agents might have caused the apparent disregard for pain...

Defoliator. Had to find the defoliator.

They must have realized that their previous attack had failed because they'd charged one at a time. Three of them broke cover the second his eyes dropped to the deck, clearing the modules with leaps typically reserved for Skirmishers. Montag snapped his weapon up, realized that he couldn't kill the nearest one fast enough, and shifted his fire to the thing's knee. It collapsed when it hit the deck, buying Montag a short reprieve. He backpedaled, dodging away from the one to his right.

A lance of golden light zipped between them, slashed the third one across the chest.

The repeater was slowing down, and raindrops were flash vaporizing the instant they hit the weapon's cowling. Montag began moderating his shots, fearful of overheating the weapon.

Oblivious to the plasma bolts blasting away at its ribcage, the thing cocked its right arm and lunged forward. Choosing between accomplishing nothing with the next half second of his life and stopping the tentacles from doing God-knew-what, Montag decided on the latter. Taking the repeater's grip in both hands, he swung it like a bat. There was a meaty sound as flesh met Covenant alloy. The tentacles deflected off his left pauldron with the force of a bullet, passed within millimeters of his throat and wrapped around the weapon's barrel.

Growling like distant thunder, the thing put a knotted hand on the weapon and tried to twist it out of Montag's grasp. Already off balance, Montag slipped and fell.

On his way down, still gamely holding on to the weapon, he remembered the other special feature of the plasma repeater. It wouldn't overheat and go into a cooldown cycle automatically; it had to be activated manually by the switch under his thumb.

The abomination shrieked as the vented heat flash-baked the flesh on both hands. The sound climbed in pitch and fury as it tossed the repeater aside and the tentacles tore off, and then died as a beam of gold light struck it in the chest and danced over the sore. The thing fell stiffly to the deck without another sound.

Montag blinked and reholstered the Handgun. The pus-like liquid had poured out of the corpse's wound, cleared the ash out and receded, revealing something deep in the mass of flesh that looked like a sickly yellow leather bag filled with wet hair. A lone tendril had been severed by the beam weapon and was now plastered to the corpse's chest.

Montag sat back and shook his head. Shoot them in the sore, and they go down like it's a headshot. While June and he had panicked, Jonesy had calmly deduced a weak spot and killed... there had to be ten of them, that he could see.

"June," he yelled. "How's Jonesy?"

"Worse," she yelled back. An impressive condition, given the state he'd been in before the fighting broke out.

Montag drew the Handgun and slowly advanced past the bodies. After a few discrete glances, he avoided looking at them. If he was careful about it, he wouldn't have to acknowledge that the Elites had been changed. He could pretend that the nightmares were all in his head.

There, lying against one of the modules, the Defoliator was waiting for him, watching him with beetle-black stenciled eyes. Without turning his back on the re-dead, Montag picked it up and primed it.

"I tried calling the others," June said as he walked over. "I figured they'd be in range by now, but the beacon is probably giving off too much interference."

Montag shrugged. All alone on an alien construct in the woods, with communications down and... 'Abominations' laying siege. If the horror movies he'd seen were anything to go by, the next thing to go would be the lights.

"Hey, Jonesy, are you awake?" he asked.

The engineer nodded and cracked his eyelids open.

"You just paved your way to Death's Door with fifteen of those abominations, even though you were doped up on morphine and using an unfamiliar weapon. I can assure you, that alone stopped us from being overrun."

"Obvious... heads folded back... tentchuls watching..." Jonesy shuddered, recalling an image he didn't want to. Very likely, it was the same image Montag remembered: how the Red Elite had jumped through the air, tattered remains of its head slapping against its chest, and yet the tendrils peeking out from its sore were so still...

"June and I were panicking," Montag insisted. "You kept your head and kept them at bay."

Then again, had the engineer simply been too sedated to panic? A possibility, but not one Montag liked. Less heroic, more circumstantial, like Montag himself.

June raised her needler and Montag spun around to look. A fat mass of flesh stuck on two stubby legs was waddling amongst the modules. As it turned their way, the Marines saw a Grunt's face stretched across the creature's front. Tentacles had sprouted out the nose and the eyes, grown long enough to sweep the ground ahead of its labored gait.

It watched the Marines for a while, slowly twisting from side to side, mouth open in a silent scream. Before it could shuffle off, Montag had the Handgun up and the safety off. The walking tumor took three shots to the face before falling over behind a module. Moments later, there came the sound of a paper bag bursting. Chunks of flesh and still-twitching organs were flung into the air, and writhed all the way back down.

In the silence that followed, Montag tried to plan the next minute out. This sort of speech had always come hard to him because he was so focused on not making it sound like it was canned, read off a form letter or something.

"See this here?" he asked, having finally found what he was searching for in his backpack. A fifty gram silver star hung from a ribbon in his fingers. "Major Sherman awarded it to me under the base for eliminating all those Spirits. All I did was be in the right place at the right time."

Montag was interrupted by a series of explosions. Over in the modules, it sounded like more of those Grunts were cooking off. So, some sort of chemical weapon...

No, he realized. He didn't have the full picture. It didn't bother him that Grunts and Elites were affected differently; they were different species after all. But somehow, the Elites were running and jumping without heads and Grunts were bloating up on explosive gasses. As far as he knew, biology didn't work that way.

"The fact is," Montag said, latching onto his previous train of thought. "You endured grievous bodily injury to get us out of that Covenant ambush. Time and time again, you've gotten us out of trouble with ingenuity and pure grit. I truly wish you could live to see the end of this war."

He caught Roz- no, June's gaze, a chilling mix of horror and confusion. All the worse because it was directed at him.

"Yeah," Jonesy wheezed as he reached for the medal. "I wondered what... happened to... Sherman and the guys. I guess I'll find out..."

Jonesy trailed off. Montag had heard it too. A growl, like a dog, carried in the wind. Silent as a skirmisher, one of the abominations had leaped onto the parapet. It was off balance, partly because of momentum, partly because Elite hooves weren't evolved for perching on narrow ledges. That was enough to send its swing wide, missing Montag's face by a decimeter.

The Handgun had never left Montag's hand. He spun around and dropped backward to put more distance between him and the abomination while he lined the gun up with the gaping sore on its chest.

_Boom! Boom!_

It collapsed in a tangle of awkward limbs and yellow-gray blood, twitching but dying.

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_

Another one had landed on all fours, and stayed that way as it rushed the Marines. The first three bullets didn't phase it, and Montag changed targets once it was intercepted by a stream of needles.

_Boom!_

While a handful of abominations had leaped onto the deck from below, more had broken cover from behind the modules. Whatever questions Montag had about where these had hidden, they were silenced by the dread that the newer monstrosities evoked. Looking for all the world like severed organs granted locomotion, they skittered across the deck like autumn leaves, hung onto the Abominations with segmented legs, converged on the Marines with a singleminded determination.

_Boom! Boom!_

Twin gouts of ichor burst from an abomination's chest. It fell, and the monstrosities swarmed over it.

* * *

**2127 Hours, Far Edge of Upper Deck**

Jonesy clutched the silver star tightly in his hand, shuddering as he saw the zombie hit the deck. Weak spot, under the sore. But Elites' chests were built like steel cages. Did the sore weaken the bone underneath?

Montag turned and began taking the zombies down with measured double-taps from his handgun. June was keeping up, blasting them in mid-leap before they could reach the deck. Both of them were fighting to protect him just as much as themselves, even though he'd be abandoning them in a few minutes. It was... touching.

Jonesy tried to think that over, tried to find some regret about dying. He really couldn't feel much of anything, just a comfortable numbness that made it hard to follow his thoughts. Hard to link one to another...

On the corpse that had just been killed by Montag, something detached itself and skittered up the Elite's head. Jonesy couldn't describe it. Somehow, it seemed to borrow from the most unnatural aspects of spiders, squid, and tumors. It seemed to regard Montag for a second, turned, and came for Jonesy.

Now he was feeling something. The fact that it was a dull sort of dread wasn't any comfort at all.

It leaped, flailing its tentacles for stability. And behind those tentacles, there was something that wasn't quite tentacle, wasn't quite mandible, but it had teeth and looked like it was designed to cut through bone.

Jonesy raised an arm to ward it off and yelped as the tips of the spider's tentacles dug into his arm. Undeterred, it looped around and landed on his chest, punctured his fatigues with its needle-sharp tentacles.

Tenderly, like a dog licking a sick person, it ran a pair of feathery tendrils down Jonesy's face, pausing as it reached the plastic breath mask.

Then it dug in.

The engineer's scream of pain deafened the fighting around him. The parasite continued to burrow, shoving tentacles through muscle, around bone, crushing ribs and separating skin from pectorals, stretching the skin around, up, over itself. Toothed appendages that could etch stone ground the ribs into a slurry of calcium and marrow, while rhythmically flexing tendrils burrowed through the lungs, integrated with the arteries and spinal cord, released invasive cells and proteins into the bloodstream.

Jonesy's scream died off, became physically impossible with one lung perforated and many of his respiratory muscles severed. He twisted into the fetal position, grabbed the parasite, and tried to tear it off. His fingers sunk into the parasite's body, ripping it into chunks and leaving a base of tentacles and knotted nerve tissue. The body itself was soft, like a jack-o-lantern a month after Halloween had come and gone, devoid of any discernible organs.

Deep within the crater-like wound, which was rapidly filling with brownish blood, the tentacles slowed and seemed to stop. Dazed, not acknowledging the two Marines crouched over him or the liquids spilling out of his chest, Jonesy reached into the wound, hooked a finger under a tentacle, and pulled. It was almost like pulling a weed with a long root; there was that initial resistance where Jonesy feared that the bit in his hands would tear off, and then there was a feeling of it breaking loose and pulling out of the lung, sliding between his ribs. It hung limply from his hand, a rope of gleaming white muscle, thirty centimeters long, devoid of the cilia and knobs that had covered it when it was forced in. Only, it wasn't limp anymore, it was coiling around his palm, between his fingers while the flesh in his arm melted and shrank against the bone, throwing sharp relief onto something tunneling beneath his skin.

"That's not right..." he whispered as the pain faded away. "That's not right..."

He could feel the knot of tentacles working in his chest, his shoulders, his stomach. Dimming the pain, banishing the fatigue, kindling a fire in his chest and in his mind.

"That's not right."

* * *

**2130 Hours, Administrative Level of Covenant-Occupied Installation**

Innovation and adaptation are the twin heartbeats of any campaign, as Mortumas 'Kandonomee had drilled into his pupil. Tactical initiative was the result of adapting to new situations as they arose, if not sooner. That had been a frustrating principle to learn, particularly because Mortumas had not confined it to any one lesson. At any moment in any wargame, Mortumas was apt to arbitrarily change the objective or declare a key lance to be destroyed.

Vlar welcomed that lesson now, for it had prepared him for this day. Rather than standing and fighting, he had ordered the Legion to disengage from the forest in stages, trading rear guards for distance across the rolling plains. Where the translocator had conspicuously refused to transmit his warriors, Vlar had taken time to learn what the machine's limitations were.

The implications were... troubling.

Organic material, even plants, could not be transmitted in or out of the district, but could be transported into nearby districts. Some of them.

Under Vlar's direction, the Legion was advancing toward one of those districts.

Inorganic matter, which included weapons, vehicles, even rocks, could be transmitted into the affected districts. A convoy of sorts had been set up, where dropships, Shadows, and Ghosts were driven ahead of the Legion's retreat, emptied of their crews and passengers, and transmitted back to the Legion proper. In the meantime, obstacles could be dropped on the advancing Plague, slowing its progress.

And yet, something had piqued Vlar's curiosity. Some of the districts bordering the current theater of conflict, the ones spinward of the conflict, would not accept organic transmission. Further experimentation had revealed that the districts adjacent to those were similarly affected. As were the districts beyond.

Nearly a third of Halo was locked.

And if the Plague was the cause... it was beyond the ability of the Fleet of Ascendant Justice to counter. If it had overrun the Covenant in those districts, and taken the dropships, it may be beyond the Fleet's ability to contain. High Charity and the escorting Fleets were due to arrive at any time now.

The Crown City of the Covenant, Mendicant Throne amongst the stars. Imagining it falling under the influence of the Parasite was every bit as painful as imagining his own home being consumed.

"Charge primed," a Kig-Yar hissed over the radio. Yet another mining explosive, stolen from a stockpile halfway across Halo, was ready to be transmitted to its final destination.

"Target selected," the Sangheili to his left reported. "There's a ford where this flash flood passes between two hills. The Plague appears to be massing alongside it."

"Fire," Vlar ordered. On the display, a hillside covered with a gray cloud and the Plague's icon disappeared. "When the Seraphim have returned from their refueling run, they are to confirm that the Parasite cannot pass over that section of the river."

Another Spirit was translocated in from somewhere else on Halo. Unlike the mining explosives, this one had been requested and granted from Legion 'Jeqkogoee. Word of the translocation system was spreading slowly and haphazardly through the Covenant ranks, and Legions 'Rasapree and 'Qovat-kaee had contacted him, begging for aid. Legion 'Moretumee apparently gained access to another translocation control, but had severed communication with the other Legions, claiming that the Parasite was listening. No one knew what had become of the Minor Prophet. The Fleetmaster himself was elusive.

"The Plague is within range of the Wraiths stationed at the Palisade."

"Order them to hold fire until the Banshees on overwatch have pinpointed the Plague's positions."

Within the district Legion 'Kandonomee was retreating to, Wraiths, mortars, and Shade turrets had been transmitted in and a defensive position had been set up. If the Parasite's presence caused a district to lock down, then the only hope for the Legion was to keep a district clear until they could all be translocated out. So far, it was a success.

Vlar turned to a third display, a private one. Deep within the Plague's territory, the Murderer and his lance were still alive, untouched by the Parasite. Like met like, dishonor and abomination.

"Charge primed."

Vlar turned to the junior Sangheili at his side. "Do you have a target?"

The warrior spread his jaws, confirming the negative.

"Very well, then,"

He typed the command in. In the Temple's hangar, crackling rings of yellow light enveloped a mining explosive, swelled, and imploded.

* * *

**2129 Hours, Far Edge of Upper Deck**

The advancing wave of tumor-bodied monstrosities reached the corpses Jonesy had killed with shots to the chest. More skittered over the parapet and leaped onto the handful of abominations Montag had killed in the same fashion.

The nearest corpse spasmed as the parasite dug into the sore, and stopped when Montag shot it.

Cold shivers ran down his spine as the implications dawned on him.

An earsplitting scream sounded off behind him. Immediately, the abominations joined in, until the beacon tower reverberated with their cries.

In unison, twenty abominations returned to the land of the living, getting to their feet as if they were unused to having limbs, shambling like walking and running were new concepts.

They learned fast.

Fire took care of problems, lifted them off one's shoulders and carried them away as ash on a warm breeze. With that in mind, Montag seized the Defoliator and primed it.

The parasites were weak, popping and coming undone as the heat washed over them. The abominations stumbled and were lost in the blaze, sure to die, except they wouldn't die,_ they'd just proved that they wanted to kill him too much to stay dead, they'd get up again and again and_

"MONTAG!"

He spun around in time to see Jonesy pull something long, thin, and bone-white from a seeping wound in -_oh God- _the skin was graying and falling in to contain the things crawling underneath it, growths like barnacles sprouting from-

Montag fumbled for the Handgun, paused as he saw a reflection in the rain-slick deck. Not orange fires or a blue-white beacon, but yellow. Golden yellow, like that teleporter under Beta Base. The sniper glanced over his shoulder and saw a Type-48 Demolitions Explosive in freefall.

He grabbed June by her injured arm, pulled her to her feet, and shoved her over the parapet. Flamethrower in one hand, Rifle in the other, Montag followed.

His last glimpse of the scene on the deck was the thing that would have haunted his nightmares until he died. Out of the inferno, a dozen abominations were charging for the Marines, still wreathed in fire. One of them reached for his face with one bony hand, determined not to let him slip away again.

Montag fell out of sight and hit the ramp below a split second later. For one unbearable moment, his left shoulder joint threatened to give again. June was lying facedown beside him, and Jonesy was _oh, God, I forgot Jonesy, I left him t-_

The whole tower shook as the beacon light was overpowered by a brighter flash. The parapet, and then the deck ceased to exist. Within the explosive's casing, a thin sheet of antimatter had been squished between two plates of molybdenum, converting 100% of the reactants into energy. While roughly half of the yield was lost as harmless neutrinos, the rest was expressed in the form of electromagnetic radiation, which decayed into thermal energy. The end result was a shockwave that backhanded the Marines as it passed over the ramp and an EM burst that overloaded their equipment.

The display on Montag's HMD flickered, rebooted, tried to clear the graphical artifacts away. The icons for the HMD's features, vision filters, camera linking, were all grayed out. Unavailable until the whole unit had rebooted, maybe not even then.

The beacon light flickered.

Montag looked at June, sitting with her back against the wall like he was, the same lost look on her face that Petrol had worn all those years ago, because he'd abandoned Jonesy, got him killed like Orteza.

"Montag," she said, her voice distorted by despair. "Jonesy..."

The beacon cut out, came on, stuttered.

The abominations shrieked in anticipation, somewhere out in the rain.

The light flared and died in a secondary explosion. Where it had once been as bright as day, now Montag couldn't see his hand in front of his face.

"Oh, shit."

* * *

**2131 Hours, Administrative Level of Covenant-Occupied Installation**

Vlar timed the bomb with the chronometer by his display. When the bombs should have gone off, the beacon tower went dark, and damage reports he couldn't understand flooded the space around the tower. It was another shock in a long line of dark surprises. The very idea that the eternal relics of the Forerunner could be destroyed...

Was what this war was all about. The Humans had done it willingly, and the path had been denied to him. Vlar had, through ignorance and outright stupidity, followed in their footsteps. Whatever myths he indulged in to dismiss his actions via temptation, that tower had been destroyed by his hands.

The entire display was dimming, the Luminary-like terminals going blank. Their ability to guide the Legion to safety was being denied. Faded icons replaced the landscape, too dim and scrolling too fast for Vlar to make out. Three icons, however, remained constant. They hovered ominously over the display for all to see, sure to be a final judgment upon him.

The acting commander of Legion 'Kandonomee drew a knife. He had failed to avenge his master, he had committed heresy against the Great Forerunner, and he had doomed the warriors under his command.

He drew a knife, the one that was about to have the blood of two incompetents upon it. When the day was over, it would be unusable by anyone with a shred of dignity left.

"Isolation... Ritual... Breached..." read the Sangheili to his left. Lhorhu 'Kaendoroamee, the warrior in the Legion with the best grasp of the Forerunner language.

He pointed at the last icon. "That would be 'Orthodox Ritual', perhaps 'Protocol'. In that context, the icon in the middle would be active, not descriptive. 'Containment' might be the proper term."

"Quarantine..." Creiva breathed, ceasing his attempts to gain a response from his terminal. "Whatever that tower had been, it was critical for halting the advance of the Plague."

All eyes turned to Vlar. Some of them, including Creiva, were judgmental. But they were also looking to him for orders. If a Sangheili under Vlar had committed the same crime, Vlar realized that he would have struck the simpleton dead. He would not share the same responsibilities as Vlar, and others could step in to rectify his mistakes.

That would be his burden. To live, unable to absolve his sins or remove the shame from his chest.

"Janu, R'kate, make the warriors present in the temple ready to travel," Vlar ordered. "Lhorhu, contact the Dauntless Courage. We'll need transportation to and from Legion 'Kandonomee's position."

He sheathed the knife, stepped around the display to follow his warriors out of the room, and was stopped when Creiva put a hand on his arm.

"Do you know what use that tower was designed for?"

"No," Vlar said, avoiding his adjutant's gaze. "Its purpose was as opaque to me as any other construct of the Gods. Perhaps you know better?"

"Perhaps. In the time since I had taken charge of the translocation system, I have noticed a vast increase in the traffic it admitted. All across this Holy Relic, Sentinels are being called to combat the Plague. These beacon towers appear to be rallying points for the myriad automatons."

"The translocation system is a logistics system?" Vlar asked. "Such as we used on the Human Stronghold-world?"

"Curious, isn't it? Even a teleporter is used for defense. Perhaps all we ever found from the Forerunner were their weapons. Weapons with scant knowledge of the Great Journey. Weapons that consort with the Humans just as freely as they do with us. The Prophets claim that they watch over the Path, denying passage to all but those who seek to follow the Forerunner."

Creiva gestured at the darkened pedestal, seeking out the right words. "As I have seen with my own eyes, the Guardians and their Sentinels are blind or indifferent to the tenets of the Great Journey. In the job we think to be theirs, they are singularly useless, and the Forerunner do _not_ design useless things. But I know the use of weapons, and one only crafts a sword if he must conquer another or defend himself."

Vlar pursed his mandibles. Of all the stories he had heard about the Dreadnought's utter domination of the First Conflict, of the reports of the reliquaries unearthed, there had always been rumors that the Covenant had only begun to uncover a military might that once spanned ten million worlds.

"Forgive me," Vlar said, breaking free of his adjutant's grip. "For a moment, I thought you were suggesting that this Plague itself was what the Forerunner fought. Perhaps they had all but eradicated such an abomination, only to seal it away within the High Instruments themselves? Showing mercy and compassion to a parasite that runs counter to the natural world?"

"I only say," Creiva insisted. "That the Forerunner's automatons do not concern themselves with our Journey, because they themselves were built for a different purpose. We were neither beggars nor pilgrims, merely irrelevant. But the status quo is subject to change, now that we have made ourselves a part of the problem."

* * *

_Since its inception, its growth had been external, reaching further and exerting its will upon more distant of its kind. As more biomass was accumulated, it shaped its center into ever more complex structures, guided by instinct more than true knowledge. Ever smaller and more intricate organs were generated within its processing matrix, organs which it only half-understood, but knew that they were necessary for some function._

_And then, a third metamorphosis had taken place._

_Deep within the Flood Super-Cell were memories coded in endless streams of genetic material, memories that spanned the galaxy, encompassing millions of worlds. The information was dozens of orders of magnitudes above what it had already categorized, beyond what it could process before the Universe died._

_But there was no chaos, no disorder. The memories had been impeccably ordered by itself a hundred thousand years ago, and the knowledge relevant to its situation was easily found. The strategies and assessments it had made minutes before were reevaluated, updated, discarded often. The simpler intelligence had done well enough, but there was much it hadn't known, did not understand._

_With a hundred thousand eyes, it peered into the space surrounding this Forerunner abomination. It extended its awareness to the warships of the self-styled Covenant, warships that would soon ferry it to the furthest reaches of the galaxy. Throughout the history of the universe, on the rocky shoals of distant worlds, species which had just acquired the gift of sentience had also gazed into the night sky. Unconsciously recognizing their inability to comprehend the scale of the universe, they often dreamed of an entity, or many such entities, that could._

_Taking their deities in hand, the manifold species would then ascribe to them the role of creating the universe, and more importantly, of creating the species themselves._

_What did they know of creation?_

_Deep within the warship tha the central intelligence occupied, and within entrenched defensive positions abroad, the simpler intelligence had instinctually stockpiled hosts that were unfit for use. Devoid of their knowledge, they were nothing more than configurations of biomass, designed for the role of survival._

_More efficient configurations existed._

_Under its direction, biological machinery delved into the stores and rendered the bodies down into the base protiens and acids. The Flood Super Cell was introduced and multiplied throughout the biomass. Designs that had been honed by centuries of war were brought to the fore. It called extinct creatures into being, gave them form in its own likeness and granted them purpose._

_One after another, the crucibles broke. A multitude of creatures spilled forth, creatures designed for supreme resiliance and mutability. As the old ones spread and advanced toward their objectives, as hosts were recalled to fuel new furnaces and be made anew within new crucibles, the agents of the Fortress-World struggled to seize the initiative. Biomass was burned before the Flood could reach it, and the crucibles were sought out with surgical strikes._

Futile.

_A hundred thousand years of solitude, and strange aeons before even then, had taught it ultimate patience. Deep within prisons constructed for it, it had lain dreaming of vistas as vast and empty as interstellar space. But unlike the Monitor of this Halo, time had not dulled its wits, and entropy had not sapped its will._

_Three factions lay before it, warring with each other more than they fought the Flood. Two were isolated and unable to call for help, the third a victim of time and neglect, and yet they sought to return the Intelligence to its prison? Silence it for ages yet to come?_

I think not._  
_

* * *

**A/N: Well, seven months and sixty notebook pages later, here we are. Credit for pushing me past my writer's block goes to the blog "Forward Unto Dawn", for their post "Rock, Metal, and Time."  
I promised Iconoclasm would be out first, back when I published "Conscientious Objector". Well, that short story bit the dust. Too much whining, not enough point, and the subject matter is somewhat dated. Maybe I'll resurrect it, if 343i ever gives me the opportunity.**

**I hope they don't.**

**As a Christian, one of the thing's I've been asked is what it would take to convince me to not believe in God. Having had insufficient time to ponder that question, and insufficient space to go into it here, I won't speak for myself.  
In writing this chapter, however, I realized that the Covenant's faith is entirely based upon physical relics and their interpretation of those relics(This is actually explored, somewhat, in one of the new terminals in the upcoming Halo: CEA game. [A definite buy for me]). It was therefore rather interesting to explore the crisis of faith that would result when they realize that there's more to the world than fits their theories.**

**In other news, I finally figured out how the Type-## system for classifying Covenant weaponry works. And I feel like an idiot, because it's _exactly the same_ as the Japanese/Chinese system: The number stands for the year of introduction (or the year that the UNSC first encountered the weapons)**

**The only exceptions seem to be the Brute Hammer, the Energy Sword and the grenades...**

**But really, this is almost as bad as the time when I was talking to a friend from the Halo Homefront mod about an IFV seen briefly in District 9. I mention spending hours trying to figure out what it was, and he says "Isn't that a Ratel?"**


	29. High Octane Nightmare Fuel

_**"I was invited to visited the War Museum about seven months before it was opened to the public. I knew that my contributions would be minuscule at best , but I felt that I had to go. Someone had to make sure that they got it all right."**_

_**"It didn't take long for the... for the interviews and the questions about the pitched door-to-door fighting in the Luna arcologies to stir up some old nightmares. By the second day, I couldn't sleep at all, so I jotted down**__** a list of men and women I'd trained with, soldiers I'd served with. I did my best to trace their careers through their retirement or, far too often, their deaths. It brought about a strange peace as I spent hours hunting for names and learning of their final resting places, because I was finally able to let go."**_

"_**There was a name that wasn't on my list because, frankly, Gui Montag definitely numbered among the bad memories. I knew him for most of my first tour, but the one thing I remember most of him was how he killed a fellow Marine, a friend of ours, and threw him out of the vehicle to save the rest of us. But maybe there is such a thing as fate, because the odds of me seeing his name amongst the billions memorialized in the Museum were simply astronomical. And I tell you, I was utterly transfixed. My first instinct was to turn away, but seeing his name and reading his service record made him into a human being again, not the amoral specter that haunted me for all these years."**_

**Corporal James Rayndar, UNSC Marine Corps (Ret.)**

* * *

**2136 Hours, 20th September 2552 (Military Calendar)  
****Base of Beacon Tower (Inoperative)  
****Halo**

"June? Are you still with me?"

In the dark, all Montag could see with the naked eye was the faint glow of her needler. "Yes. Where are they?"

"In range." Stupid answer, really, but how was he supposed to point them out if he and June couldn't even see each other? "On my mark, advance to the outbuilding, pick up any weapons you see."

Static was vanishing from his HMD as the unit rebooted, isolating damaged hardware and restoring corrupted programs. Montag began to breathe evenly as the world around him was revealed once more. It was better to see the monsters that were really out there than it was to be left alone with the ones he could imagine, because those couldn't be killed by bullets or by fire.

Maybe.

At the click of a button, the pre-igniter sparked and burned steadily. As a certain book said, "Let there be light."

"Wai-" June interjected.

A pair of abominations had paused, listening. Before Montag could squeeze the trigger, they turned and ran. Something they heard?

"Sierra." It occurred to both of the soldiers simultaneously.

"Revealing our position in three, two..." Montag whispered, raising the flamethrower. A short jet of fire lit up the night, hopefully bright enough to pierce the rain. The pyrosene rained down some fifty meters away, dancing in step with the shadows.

Some of the shadows danced of their own volition.

Montag let out a short curse and torched a strip of ground. A dozen monstrosities were caught in the fire, leaving a few stragglers for June to take care of. Her needles punched through their sacklike bodies, but were hardly more than an inconvenience until they detonated.

They both missed one. It bounced onto the ramp, made a beeline for Montag, and burst like a rotten gourd when he stepped on it. There was a hard knot of something under his heel, perhaps tentacles. Whatever it was, it started gnawing on his sole and didn't stop until he'd stomped on it a few times.

"June, please tell me you have a plasma pistol. That needler's not good."

Her reply was drowned out by a Warthog's horn.

"Liz," she exclaimed. Before Montag could protest, she'd jumped off the ramp and ran towards the fire.

"Wait," Montag shouted, seizing the Rifle and running off to catch up. "Wait, you don't know that it's them!"

She was a lot less encumbered than he was, and he lost ground quickly. She disappeared around the bonfire, and if she answered his warning, he didn't hear it. He did, however, hear the gunfire.

He caught up a few seconds later, belatedly dropping the Rifle and priming the flamethrower. There was Da Vega, a couple of flares at her feet and an assault rifle aimed at June and Montag. There was the Warthog, the front end banged up and covered with pus-yellow gunk. To his surprise, there was also a Shadow, in much the same condition.

"Hands up, the three of you!" Da Vega shouted. Whatever the followup was, Montag wasn't paying attention. He was too busy doing the mental math and coming up short.

He half turned and caught sight of something following him, something tagged on his IFF as "DOC". The limp heads and bulging muscles of the Elites were absent. If one ignored how tumor-like growths were spilling out of the exit wound on the head, or how the pupils had dilated to consume most of the eyes, or how the breastplate removed to let a trio of tendrils sprout from a festering sore, Dirkins still looked positively human.

Having seen other people attempt it, Montag knew better than to torch something that was about to tackle him. He flicked the kill switch on the flamethrower, yanked the energy sword off his belt, and swung it in an intercept course.

He expected it to burn a thin slice through the abomination that wore Dirkins's body, an expectation grounded in twelve years of experience, and an expectation betrayed when the sword flared and burned a decimeter-wide path across the abomination's torso. The intervening matter exited the thing's back in a jet of flesh and superheated gasses.

The abomination was killed instantly, but its momentum wasn't. Two halves of Dirkins slammed into Montag, bowling him over.

He opened his eyes when a third of a clip of MA5B ammo pumped into the corpse beside him. He rolled away, wanting to put as much distance between him and Dirkins as possible, but a shot to the mud by his head brought him to a halt.

"Stop," Da Vega ordered, redundantly. "Did it bite you?"

Behind her, Liz was asking June the same question, but in a less hostile, more sisterly way.

"That's not how they spread, Rose," Montag ventured.

"Check him out, Rose," Kanoff called from somewhere by the Shadow. He had a T-42 plasma cannon aimed at Montag, the barrel cowling still smoking. "I've got you covered."

"Stand up, drop the sword and your sidearm by the flamethrower, arms out," Da Vega ordered as Liz started calling for Jonesy. When Montag complied, she gestured at his left arm. "What happened there?"

The armor plate on his arm was deeply scored. Montag remembered the abomination that had whipped him with those tentacles they all seemed to grow out of their hands. It was a glancing blow, yet it had still cut three ragged centimeter-deep grooves in ballistic armor.

"Remove the plate," Da Vega ordered. "And the sleeve."

"It didn't break skin-"

"I'll be the one to judge that, Montag."

Montag unclipped the armor plate and rolled back the sleeve. Beneath, there was a harsh purple and olive bruise that ran the full length of his upper arm.

For a while, there was only the sound of Liz and June shooting at something beyond the reach of the flares' light. That same light danced over Da Vega's stony expression, played along the rifle she held.

"Go stand against the Shadow, hands on the hood. Gerry, if that bruise starts growing, shoot him."

Hands over his head, Montag nodded approvingly and stepped past her. "That's what it takes, Rose. When everything boils down to a nightmare, that's when we set aside our humanity."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm saying that there's a point where you have to do what's necessary. Treat contacts as hostile until proven otherwise. Give orders at gunpo-"

A kick to the small of the back cut him short. Already tense from carrying a flamethrower, anti-materiel rifle, handgun, and ammunition for all three like the protagonist in a generic shooter game, he crumpled into the mud.

"I'm nothing like you, jackal. You didn't need an excuse to abandon us on the Autumn. And you didn't need an excuse to give us orders at gunpoint."

"No. Things had to go to Hell first. I learned it on Siberia Prime."

"Nobody was holding a gun to our heads on Reach or Beta Base, Montag."

"Those were defeats. _This _is Hell. Siberia Prime was Hell." Montag said as he eyed Da Vega's assault rifle. "Sanity has gone out the window, the dead aren't staying dead, and we are the last humans in the universe. This is bare-bones necessity, survival."

That was when Da Vega lost interest in the debate. She turned to the Warthog, away from Montag. "Get off your knees, get up against the Shadow. I'm not going to order you twice."

When Montag complied, Kanoff took over. He'd swapped his plasma cannon for a shotgun, which he kept leveled at Montag's back. He looked uncomfortable: uncomfortable with the dead returning to life, uncomfortable with guarding Montag, uncomfortable with standing out in heavy rain. Uncomfortable with two friends dying when he wasn't around to protect them.

"What happened to Jonesy?"

Montag shook his head. "Got beat up when he crashed the Spectre. Burned his lungs out saving us, then one of the little monstrosities got him."

"What, the little beach balls?"

"Beach balls..." Montag repeated incredulously. "How do cancerous lungs with spider legs look like beach balls?"

"Well, partially deflated," Kanoff admitted. "And when they pounce, it looks like a beach ball bouncing. We saw a dozen of them catch up with an Elite..." He shuddered. "You're sure you didn't get bitten or anything? It'll be hard to maintain a perimeter with just three people."

"I'm not feeling sick or anything. Whatever those things are, I think they spread through the... the fleshsacks."

"Don't know that for sure," Kanoff argued. "Could be a viral component that carries the infection. You don't know that somethings wrong until your head splits open and the tentacles inside start eating the rest of us. Boom: and then you're a zombie."

Montag glanced over his shoulder and relaxed when he saw Kanoff's halfhearted smile. Coping mechanisms. Some were more annoying than others. He expected paranoia, understood it, but Kanoff just had a look in his eyes like a recruit on his first day of live-fire training. There was a disconnect there, a refusal to emotionally grasp the magnitude of the danger.

The sniper turned back to the Shadow, watched as the blood of the abominations washed away. Some of it stuck, puffing out like barnacles, sprouting hairs and little fins.

"What happened to the Warthog?" he asked. Da Vega had popped the hood, and was shoulder-deep in the vehicle's inner workings.

"We ran over a boomer. One of the fat ones they grow from Grunts. It went off like a landmine and nearly tipped us over. According to the dash computer, the fuel line is leaking, so she's trying to replace it."

Montag turned to face Kanoff, ignoring the shotgun a hand's breadth from his sternum. "We've talked for a full minute. Are you satisfied that I'm not infected?"

"Mostly. Let's see your bruise."

Montag held his left arm out in front of his chest, and then casually batted the shotgun away. His fingers caught on the flashlight and tightened as if he was going to twist it out of Kanoff's grip. Kanoff countered, overcorrected when Montag let go, and was taken by surprise when the sniper clamped his hand on the receiver and flicked the safety on. There was a glint of steel that moved like a snake striking, and he felt Montag's combat knife pressed against his jugular.

"Two lessons," Montag hissed, somehow louder than the assorted curses from Da Vega and the twins. "Lesson number one is that you _always_ stand two paces away from your prisoner. Lesson two is that you'd _better_ be willing to shoot if they so much as blink without permission."

Kanoff nodded as the color drained from his face. It was a look Montag had long associated with people who had major arteries severed.

"You want to know how Jonesy died?" Montag snarled. "He died after... after killing a dozen of those shambling abominations with a weapon he'd never even seen before, and that was after he'd burned his lungs out on rocket exhaust. You have used this gun since we dropped here. This squad has every right to expect better of you."

Montag's prisoner nodded, tried to look remorseful. Mostly, he just looked scared.

"Relax," he said, withdrawing the knife and holding it up in front of Kanoff's face. "I had the cutting edge away from your neck."

Kanoff's expression was, in a word, bewildered. He opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted.

"Stand aside, Gerry," Da Vega yelled. She'd crawled out of the Warthog's engine bay, and was slowly circling around the two Marines, sighting down her assault rifle.

"Go ahead," Montag replied as he moved to keep Kanoff between him and Da Vega. "If you think I'm infected, stand aside and let your girlfriend shoot me.

The detachment was gone, replaced by a curious cocktail of emotion: relief, resentment, embarrassment. Kanoff wouldn't however, stand aside. Montag would do the same were their roles reversed, if only because they couldn't afford to lose another person. He was counting on Kanoff's reasons being less pragmatic, more emotional. Kanoff couldn't step away and let a fellow human being come to harm.

"It's alright, Rose. He's clean."

"The Hell it is. He's a loose cannon."

"You're the only one pointing a gun at anyone, Rose," Montag called back.

"Don't play mind games, Montag. You're awful at them."

"If I'd been slower or if Gerry had stood aside, I'd be dying right now. The only one who's been in danger here is me. If you want to continue with the Venezian standoff until we're overrun by abominations, go ahead. If you want to talk, lower your gun."

Da Vega seemed to think about this, then she lowered her rifle and gestured for Kanoff to guard the perimeter with the twins. Not once did she shift her glare from the sniper. Montag stood there, weaponless and ankle-deep in rain-saturated sod, unsure if she actually intended to keep her part of the cease-fire.

Quick as a snake striking, Da Vega brought the rifle up, sighted along it, and squeezed off a round. The bullet hissed past Montag's head and ricocheted off the Shadow into the rainstorm.

"You were teaching Gerry a lesson, I was aiming to miss. We're even," she said. The way she glared at Montag indicated that 'even' referred to a balance of actions, not to a feeling of goodwill or trust between them. "I need a few more minutes. Keep watch for zombies."

Montag retrieved the weapons where he had dropped them, stowed the flamethrower, and trudged over to the Warthog.

Da Vega's curses were long, florid, and almost entirely incomprehensible to Montag. Offhand, he wondered if she was cursing the rain or the lack of light. He was about to help out with the flashlight on the Handgun, but thought better of it and unclipped a light from his belt.

She looked over her shoulder and squinted into the light, displeased to see her least-favorite human being. "Shouldn't you be manning the perimeter?"

"What's wrong with the 'Hog?"

"Fuel line ruptured. Gotta patch it first, flush the air out, and get the checkvalves on either side to open." The polymer hose in her hands was already covered in patches, a testament to the leak's elusiveness. "We'll be up and running in five, and then we'll be running faster than the zombies can keep up."

"We're going to continue to the Pillar of Autumn."

Da Vega wiped the rain off her face in frustration before she replied. "Why? What's so important about the Pillar, Gui? It's not about getting us patched up, it's not about getting June a prosthetic arm, and apparently it's important enough to wade through the results of Mother Nature's bad acid trip."

"I'm going to breach the reactor, initiate a wildcat destabilization," Montag said, surprising himself with how monotonous he made it sound. It was almost as if he was rattling off his service number. "The explosion should compromise the Ringworld's structural integrity enough for it to rip itself apart."

Da Vega's hands quit working the fuel line. "... Why?"

"Because there's no way off this Ringworld. Because the war's over now that Reach has fallen. Because the Ringworld is a monument to macroengineering by a long-gone race, and the Covenant is going to rape and pillage it. Because the Covenant, perversely, think this is some sort of religious icon. Most of all? Because there's no way home, not for any of us. Major Sherman confirmed that the only way we were getting off this Ringworld is by capturing a Covenant cruiser."

Montag smiled dryly. "I think we all know what the success rate of that is."

Da Vega recovered from her shock fast. "When were you going to fill us in, Gui? Were you going to torch the Autumn first? Give us five minutes to reach minimum safe distance?"

"I was afraid, Rose-"

"Afraid we'd have our heads screwed on right?" she asked, her voice loud enough for the other Marines to take notice. The twins dutifully kept their eyes on the flare-lit perimeter, but Kanoff's gaze lingered on Montag. "Afraid that we'd value our lives more than your personal death-wish? You and your whatever-it-takes philosophy-"

"That's it," Montag interjected. "That's exactly it. What if I'm in the wrong? What if I'm insane? If I brought it up with you guys, I would be confronting the philosophy that's driven me for half my adult life. And... I'm afraid that I'd have to admit that I'm wrong. That San Lorenze, that Siberia Prime, that Inchon would become reprehensible acts of evil, not necessary acts of war. What if I can't tell the difference between right and wrong?"

"You can't be that far gone, Montag."

"You think so? Do you know what had to happen for me to even start questioning this? I had to completely lose control. I had to..."

Montag glanced at the rest of Sierra Squad, weighing the variables in his head. Were they close enough to hear him? Were they having trouble fending the abominations off? Did he have time to tell Da Vega everything?

"Back in February, an Insurrectionist cell staged a Covenant attack, posed as refugees, and captured the frigate Mid-morning Horizon. I was still an ODST back then, stationed on the Inchon, the destroyer tasked with the retrieval of the Horizon."

The sniper leaned over the Warthog's engine compartment and met Da Vega's eyes. "Question: Just how much are you comfortable with knowing?"

* * *

_The vacuum doors sealed the hangar, though the armored bulkheads stayed retracted. No sense in locking the hanger down if it was going to be handling a lot of traffic._

_An automated forklift rolled out of its garage. Unperturbed by the jets of atmosphere filling the room, it rolled up to the Pelican and retrieved a crate from the magnetic clamps. It retreated to its hideaway with the cargo, a motley assortment of guns, provisions, and computer equipment that the Innies had brought with them. Stuff for ONI to go over for evidence, before shipping it all to the recycling centers._

_From the Pelican's cockpit, Montag watched the external atmosphere pressure normalize. When the gauge indicated that the pressure was equalized, the pilot opened the blood tray to the waiting MPs. While the pilot waited for the clearance to take off again, she calmly pulled the maintenance log on the Pelican and started a census of the Pelican's new bullet holes._

"_Be sure to schedule a thorough cleaning of the blood tray," Montag said, cracking a joke that had probably been coined when the Insurrection first broke out. "We just transported a load of human waste."_

"_Ain't no detergent known to man could eliminate the taint, Montag," Sidney mumbled. She glanced into the tail camera, currently showing the MPs herding the Innies into a deserted corner of the hangar. "See that girl in back? Why's she got her kid with her?"_

_Montag leaned in for a closer look. The woman in question was cradling a bundle of cloth, in which a child not six months old slept. "Half the Innies claim to be noncombatants. Lot of children. Probably made their story more convincing when they met up with the Mid-morning Horizon."_

"_Damn inhuman thing to do," Sidney replied, settling back in her seat. "Even if that brat _is_ going to grow up to be a good little terrorist, risking exposing him to combat like that..."_

_Montag glanced at her, and shrugged. Sydney was an excellent pilot, but interaction with the enemy for her was strictly limited to what she could see, hear, and gun down from the cockpit of her Pelican. "If you ever get the chance to talk to them, don't bother. Listening to Innies is like... like the exact opposite of hearing a person speak a language you don't know. The words are familiar, but the logic, the reasoning, it's completely alien."_

"_Think I struck a nerve," Sydney remarked._

"_I've been fighting them for five years," Montag insisted. "I've spent all that time looking for a rational reason for them to be fighting us, and I haven't even come close. The only thing that makes them better than the Covenant is that they're human. Maybe. Maybe it only makes them worse."_

_A group of solemn Navy types climbed into the Pelican, the crew that would bring the Mid-morning Horizon back to dock._

"_This is where I get off," Montag said. "Fly slow; your new cargo has "Handle with care" written all over it."_

* * *

"The battle itself had been awful. These Innies..." Montag trailed off as he searched for a suitable word. "They were drifters. Cruising around ever since the Covenant had returned to Arcadia. They were desperate, and not all of them were run-of-the-mill criminals. Some were professional agitators, present to score a major victory for the URF. So, after we'd retaken the Horizon, saved some of the hostages, and transferred the Innies over to the Inchon-"

* * *

"_Wonder how they got these aboard?" Collins asked. The crate had been unloaded from the forklift and opened. Inside, dozens of firearms were sealed in clear plastic evidence bags. Out of boredom, the ODSTs had spread them out on the deck, admiring the weapons that had been arrayed against them a few hours before. BPKs of various makes and states of repair were the most common, though they had been supplemented with shotguns, confetti makers, even a Riveter that had clearly seen better days._

"_Ask them," Willard replied. "Them" were the Innies sitting at the other end of the bay, in a corner that had been cleared of machinery. The ones that ONI had deemed dangerous had been restrained and taken deeper into the Inchon. All the others had been left for the ODSTs to guard, a situation made necessary by the fact that over two hundred Insurrectionists had been captured._

_Montag held up one of the bags, blinking as Collins snapped pictures. Each camera flash sent a spike of pain racing through his head, courtesy of a few near misses in the corridor battles._

_The gun was tagged as a Szu T-22 tactical shotgun, though the number of mods made identification tenuous. Considering that the ONI agent who bagged the weapon had included the spare ammunition in the bundle, his or her knowledge of firearms was probably theoretical._

"_Hey," Soung shouted as she dug a plastic bag out of the crate. "An honest-to-God Uzi sub-machine gun! Screw evidence, this thing belongs in a museum!"_

"_Pardon me a minute, sir," Sergeant Nesfield said, before switching her helmet radio off. "Soung, if you so much as stretch the plastic on that, I'll chuck you out the airlock. The rest of you, cut the chatter!"_

"_No, sir, it won't be a problem. Understood," she continued when her squad complied. With an exasperated sigh, she tore off her helmet and massaged her temples with one gloved hand. "We're not getting those MPs back. ONI has several dozen terrorists they want to put on trial, so those get the professional security. Meanwhile, we'll be on babysitter duty until we get back to port."_

"_That's a twenty-hour trip," Collins said over the collective groans. _

"_Hey, if _we're_ the ones watching over these guys, that means that they're nobodies, right?" Soung asked. "Light duty is fine by me."_

"_They're Innies. The only thing keeping them in check is the fact that we can survive hard vacuum, and they can't."_

_Timothy snorted. "We should have spaced them in the first place. We were blowing bulkheads to get into the frigate, should have blown a few more and let the vacuum have them."_

* * *

"You can see where I'm going with this, right?" Montag asked, taking a perverse pride in the horrified look Da Vega gave him. "If you haven't heard of the Inchon, you've probably heard of the Mid-morning Horizon. And the question is, was I angry? Did I want revenge?"

Montag looked upward, perhaps past the rainclouds above. "Ultimately, I think I was at the point where it didn't matter what I thought. I just did."

* * *

_The Mid-morning Horizon gleamed in the light from Ceti Mu, still rotating about its long axis from the hits it had taken. From this distance, the ODSTs could see the dropships and EVA craft swarming around it, repairing it enough for the journey home. From this distance, the ODSTs were close enough to be blinded by the sun that bloomed amidships._

"_Sidney," Collins breathed, dropping his camera. "_Sidney!_"_

_Nesfield was instantly back on her radio, trying to get a handle on the situation. Montag tuned the chaos out as he watched as the expanding debris field enveloped the surrounding shuttle craft As soon as the sun had been born, it faded and set, moving out of the field of view afforded by the hangar doors as the Inchon took evasive action. Montag barely felt the ship turn over the hollow feeling in his stomach._

_It was obvious what had happened. A bomb planted deep in the reactor machinery where ONI couldn't find it or get to it in time, or perhaps one of the SHIVA warheads on a delay timer. Trap set by Innies to make sure that more UNSC than URF personnel died that day. Innies who spat on the idiots that offered help, Innies who killed anyone that questioned their nebulous political philosophies._

_Covenant._

_Montag dropped the shotgun he'd been holding up for Collins and rubbed his temples. The headache that had been building since he'd helped retake the Mid-morning Horizon was gone. In its place was something comparable to a migraine in that it was nothing like a migraine at all. No pain, just clarity. Like a diamond bullet._

_They were no better than the Covenant. One was a collection of mongrel races whose religion had dictated that Humanity was to be exterminated rather than incorporated. The other was a heterogeneous alliance of communists, fascists, anarchists, and libertarians, united only by destructive ideals of self-governance and a willingness to betray their own species in the vain hope that they would be spared._

_No difference._

"_Timothy," Montag whispered over his radio. "How much does M90 ammunition cost?"_

"_What?" the soldier blurted, understandably too distracted to formulate an intelligent answer._

"_How much. Does the UNSC spend. On a box of twelve M90 shells?" Montag reiterated as he got to his feet, shotgun now in hand._

"_Something like two credits. Why? Where're you going?"_

"_To save the UNSC enough money to buy a cup of coffee."_

_Montag tore the bag off the shotgun, pulled a magazine out with it, and slid it into the receiver. His footsteps echoed throughout the hangar, a rhythm that was broken by the rumbling of debris against the Inchon's hull. He let his feet carry him to the corner that the Innies were huddled in while he stared at the tag dangling from the trigger guard. It was a list of modifications to the weapon, the illegal ones highlighted in red. Much of it was harmless, even downright stupid like the vertical grip on the pump. The detachable box magazine and the the lack of a trigger disconnector were something else. Someone could fire the gun as fast as they could pump it, provided they held the trigger down. Room-sweeper._

_The Innies turned around when they heard him pump a round into the firing chamber. They looked at him like mice, like sheep, like Grunts in the headlights. Not like people._

_Montag stopped and clicked his heels with a Boy Scout grin. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. This may come as a great surprise, but the UNSC has been fighting an alien menace for two and a half decades. These aliens have a nasty habit of glassing our colonies, hunting down survivors, and doing everything else it takes to put Humanity on the Endangered Species List."_

_Silence filled the hangar when Montag paused. Even the rest of the ODSTs had shut up to watch what he was doing, trying to convince themselves that he wasn't crazy enough to-_

"_I'm sure that this is the first you've heard of this. Otherwise, I can't see how you could justify scuttling one of the few weapons we have to keep the Covenant at bay. Ignorance is no excuse, as the old saying goes, and your actions demand justice. Unfortunately, we don't have the resources to detain you all and put you on trial, as we need everything we've got on the front lines. So, effective immediately, we'll be releasing you from custody."_

_Montag's boyish smile only got wider as he brought the shotgun level with an Innie's face and pulled the trigger._

* * *

"Stop."

Montag blinked, surprised by Da Vega's interruption.

"I don't want... I think it would be better if I didn't know." Her glare had softened into that same look of shock and revulsion that June had given him earlier, when he'd awarded that medal to Jonesy. "How are you still in a uniform after that?"

"Because my own squad mates couldn't decide whether to stop me or not, not at first. Between me, the ODSTs, and the remaining Innie, someone up the chain of command decided that it didn't have to be a big deal."

Montag shrugged, or maybe shivered from the rain. "That's why I was shuffled back into the Corps with barely a demotion. Because someone made the same decision that Morris made, and decided that I could still be trusted to kill Covenant on demand."

"You killed civilians. Human beings."

Montag's cheek twitched. A dozen clarifications and excuses were at the tip of his tongue, each of them well-used. Old habits died hard.

"Yeah. Human beings."

"Do you honestly expect us to trust you after... because you told me about that?"

"No," Montag sighed. "I'm just trying to get this all out there, trying to say that I realize that I'm in the wrong. I'm not sure how to go about it, but I'd like to die a better human being. And if it wasn't for that one incident, I would never have been forced to admit that I crossed the line. I wouldn't have been wracked by denial and uncertainty. And I would still have wanted to blow the Ringworld apart, if I'd ended up here, but I wouldn't have tried to get you guys on board with the plan. I would have just slipped away and done it when I got the idea."

Da Vega's gaze shifted from Montag to the fuel line in her hand, over to the Marines holding the perimeter, and then back to Montag. Finally, she reached a decision.

"You're a lousy human being, Montag. But I pity you," she said as she shut the Warthog's hood and grimaced at the mold-like growths on the vehicle's front. "We'll do it on two conditions. When we get to the Autumn, we try to make contact with the rest of the UNSC on Halo, figure out if there's a better way. Second condition is that I get final say in that last part."

"Alright," Montag said, removing his glove. "Shake on it?"

Reluctantly, Da Vega took his hand.

"Everyone mount up," he called as Da Vega shut the hood. "We're moving out now."

"Montag, no," Da Vega said. "They deserve to be told in person, not over the radio."

To his credit, the sniper barely paused. "Our objective is the Pillar of Autumn. We will evade alien hostiles, hole up, and attempt to make contact with human survivors. Our final action will be to breach the Autumn's reactor core and scuttle the Ringworld."

"Wait," June interrupted. "What about minimum safe distance?"

"If you can fly a Pelican and want to take your chances against Covenant warships, I'll give you a fifteen minute head start. If not, I recommend a last stand in the reactor room."

Da Vega sided with Montag. "Take a look in the Warthog, June. We captured some new weapons when we took the Shadow, but we still burned through half our ammo in the attempt. God knows what these things are, but they're going to keep coming long after we run out of ammo and fuel."

"There's a lot we don't know," Montag admitted. "This is all moot if there's human survivors to link up with, but we have to make a decision now, before circumstances force a decision upon us."

"Hey, I'm all for a big stand, last-one-turn-off-the-lights ending," Liz interjected. "But are we sure that the Autumn will do anything to Halo? I'm not sure if you got a good look on the way down here, but Halo is huge. Jonesy couldn't measure how far it was to the bottom when we were on the gondola."

"Yes, it should," Kanoff said. "A ship's MAC round has a yield upwards of a teraton. The biggest bomb mankind has ever dropped was a one-fifty megaton, and the blast from that managed to trigger earthquakes across the planet. Whatever Halo is made-"

"Yeah, but that's the MAC, right?"

"The energy has to come from somewhere, Liz," Montag said. "If the MAC has a yield of a teraton of TNT equivalent, that means that the reactor has to put out that much energy in the minutes it takes to charge the gun, plus energy for maneuvering, life support, A-grav, and inertial damping."

"But the Autumn crash-landed, what, almost three days ago? Wouldn't the reactor be in standby mode by now?"

"Standby mode on a capital ship isn't that much different from normal running," Kanoff pointed out. "Unless a ship is in drydock for repairs, it has to be sixty seconds from full combat capability. What standby mode actually does is it stores energy in a ready-to-tap state within the reactor, but it doesn't harvest any more than it needs for basic functions."

"Right. Completely different from terrestrial reactors," Montag said. "I was hoping that Jonesy would have been around to come up with a more elegant plan, but... I guess we're stuck with piling explosives in one area and hoping that it cracks the engine shield."

"What about the T-48?" Da Vega asked.

"The what?"

"The mining explosive we captured. Remember, the Covenant were going to use it to destroy the Pelican we salvaged?"

"Pardon me," June interrupted sourly. "Aren't we buying the house unseen here? First, there's _them_ between us and the Autumn, even if we all agree on the suicide mission."

"Basic geometry, June. Not sure if you got a good look last time we had clear skies, but we're on a Ringworld and I'm pretty sure that there's only so far you can run before you find _them_ coming the other way."

"Hey!" Liz shouted. "Can I please talk to my sister for a few seconds? Before," she added when June started to interrupt. "You two kill each other?"

Montag shrugged and walked to the Shadow. He nodded at Kanoff and Da Vega when they turned to follow him. "Thanks for backing me up."

Da Vega grunted noncommittally. Kanoff was more forthcoming. "Hey, the way things are going, the Autumn may as well be on the far side of Halo. Ask me how I feel if we actually get there, because I'm pretty much in denial at the moment."

"Point taken. What's the country like out there?"

"Rough. The Shadow is going to have to go first, since it's such a good battering ram." Da Vega said as she slid into the driver's seat. "Fortunately for us, They don't seem to drive vehicles, so we can outrun them if we meet them."

Montag stepped through the Shadow's deck and off the other side. He blinked, and his HMD switched to an infrared display, then motion sensitive.

"Kanoff, which way did you see them go?"

"I dunno..." Kanoff leaned into the Shadow's cabin to look at Da Vega's assault rifle. "East-ish."

"Head north, then. Get into the open, then head spinward."

The sniper paused. There was a strange ghosting effect on his HMD. The motion sensitive filter had several options, and it was currently set to highlight irregular motion. The grass getting beaten down by rain was something the filter had quickly picked up on, and was tinted blue. But purple splotches perhaps two meters wide were moving across the ground, slowly moving toward the tower.. Puzzled, Montag switched back to infrared, and the splotches disappeared.

He looked up.

Flying overhead in loose formation were lights like distant streetlamps in the fog, all moving in Kanoff's 'east-ish' direction. It was impossible to say how high they were until a number of them broke off and descended below the smoke cloud billowing from the beacon tower. After establishing a holding pattern around the wreck, they turned to face the Marines.

"Montag..." Liz said.

"I see them," he replied as the Shadow lifted off the ground. The things had an angular, insect like appearance to them. They were probably drones of some sort, though not the angular, insect like flying Drones that the Covenant deployed once in a blue moon. These were metallic gray and had the appearance of a down-ward pointing arrow when they were seen head-on. An arrow tipped by a blue light, pointing towards an infinitely more ominous red one.

Montag barely made it back into the Shadow before it began moving. There was a great commotion, the sound of something raking the back of the Shadow. June shouted something about focus weapons while the LAAG hummed to life and began returning fire. He could also hear the Warthog's engine keeping pace with the Shadow. Apparently, Sierra Squad was staying together for one last hurrah.

The trees passed the Shadow, seemingly as distant as his squad. The interior cabin was well shielded from the air and the rain rushing by, and the hover effect canceled out the natural dips and bumps of the forest. It was as smooth as a highway, or a subway.

When he thought that they had left the drones behind, a rolling boom sounded nearby, like a volley of rockets hitting pay dirt. Montag threw himself against the rear wall of the troop bay as a trio of red needles embedded themselves in the center wall. As he watched, they burned white hot and then sublimated.

One last hurrah.

The sniper blinked. Closed his eyes.

"One last job."

Montag cracked one eyelid open.

Minister of the Interior Nikitin sat before him. He'd been the architect of the Zima program, been in charge of integrating Superintendent Demidov into Siberia Prime's defense programs, if not the other way around. He was the reason why the conflict had dragged on for four months, the reason why Montag had spent three months building a Hell for Man and Covenant alike in the ruins of Lublanska.

And now he was hiring.

"We're calling it Zima 26," he said, not blinking as a few more red needles zipped into the troop bay. He didn't raise his voice as a loud explosion sounded nearby, followed by a great crashing sound and Kanoff's whoops of joy. Didn't have to; Montag had heard the offer before. "We can't exactly use it as a shield now that the Covenant have changed their tactics, but we can use it as a diversion, give the evacuation some living room."

Nikitin was gaunt, thinner than the last time Montag had met him. Not enough food, not enough sleep, too many worries, too many compromises. All for nothing.

Half a day ago, the Covenant capital ships that had established orbital dominance over Siberia Prime had descended. Metrograd had been the first, and now all the great cities were being systematically glassed.

Montag turned that thought over in his mind as the subway train shook. If he had a mirror, he could count the similarities between him and Nikitin. He wasn't alone.

Clancy had that same look when they had volunteered to board the Covenant Corvette. So had Demarest, when you caught him off-guard. Particularly towards the end. Montag was merely the last in line, meeting his final challenge hundreds of light years from where he'd met those men.

End of the line. He wasn't sure how he felt about that.

* * *

**2202 Hours, Covenant Defilade**

If he were to allow himself one moment of overconfidence, Vlar 'Koalomee would have hazarded that the Parasite could not stand up to organized military might. The military might, he reminded himself, lasted only as long as the ammunition and batteries held. And the organization would buckle once the Parasite found a new angle, a new tactic. Which, to be fair, was something it had proven itself to be singularly good at.

Under fire from the Wraiths and Phantoms, the Parasite had gotten close to the fortifications, even breaching the lines at some points. One of the creatures that had spearheaded that those breaches lay before Vlar. It had never been a Sangheili or a Human; rather, it once had been both before the Parasite fused them together. Realization was spreading through the ranks that they were not just food or hosts, but raw materials that would be broken apart and put to use as the Parasite saw fit. Accordingly, the Warriors of the Covenant were fighting harder, but were increasingly leery of exposing themselves.

He stepped back as a Major Domo began to quarter the construct with an energy sword, the only sure way to prevent reanimation. Behind him, Creiva 'Dontaree was checking the charge on his repeater with a grim expression.

"We need something to burn the bodies," he remarked. "If they can not only turn us, but assemble new abominations from the cast-off parts of the dead, butchering the bodies will only delay them."

"As long as we are wishing for what is not, why not wish that we are home at our Dochas, celebrating victories the likes of which our ancestors never dreamed?" R'kate retorted as he loaded his needle rifle. "Or perhaps waging war on a distant human world, against a foe that has the decency to stay dead?"

The masses in the thrall of the Parasite were gathering for an attack. They were spread out in craters and under charred foliage, dispersed enough that the nearly-constant firing of the Wraiths couldn't dent their numbers, deep enough in cover that the hail of plasma bolts and needles was hardly more than a nuisance. Yet from the way the larger constructs were moving to the fore, the Parasite clearly expected a breakthrough soon.

One of the Kig Yar pointed into the sky and shrieked "Nester!" It was one of the crude names its kind had for a Human dropship, apparently inspired by the similarities to a gravid female.

Vlar banished the lurid particularities from his mind and looked skyward in the direction the soldier was pointing. A dropship was hurtling toward the entrenchment at full speed, its underside glinting in the light from the fiery landscape. It was less of an aircraft than a guided projectile, doubtlessly aimed at the Wraiths in the center of the Covenant position.

It was Death's work. She would sweep away Legion 'Kandonom's last defense while Vlar was forced to watch for those last few heartbeats. She had, with great care, left him helpless to avert disaster. Even if he could give the order in time, even if the Wraiths could take aim and let off a volley, the Humans built their dropships like brick-

That thought was cut short as a flash of lightning enveloped the aircraft and struck the Parasite-besmirched valley. The thunderclap was loud enough to rattle Vlar's teeth and was still echoing across the hill when a gentle hail of molten metal began to fall.

He was unsure of whom to thank for that miracle. The Wisdom of the Forerunner came to mind out of habit, but they had been notably sparing in divine intervention recently, and Vlar couldn't think of a reason for that to change. He cycled through a list of myths and half-forgotten deities as he took a breath of relief, and was somewhat disappointed when the Dauntless Courage dropped beneath the clouds.

"Braggarts," the Kig Yar hissed, its voice almost lost amongst commotion the carrier's point-defense lasers caused as they raked the Parasite-held ground. "No gratitude from me! They could have fried that Nester any time."

Offhand, the acting commander of Legion 'Kandonom had to agree, though he was far too relieved to care. He began giving orders for withdrawing to the center of the Palisade, where a gravity lift was already retrieving the three Wraiths.

It was a last fighting retreat. Kig Yar and a few remaining Lekgolo brought up the rear, while a few brave Shade pilots provided covering fire. The Parasite surged over the ramparts, only to be beaten back by warriors with hope renewed and worries about conserving ammunition banished.

The Legion clustered under the violet light, and for a moment Vlar worried that Shipmaster 'Kandonomee would leave them to die. Then a score of warriors ascended into the carrier, then another, then a third. Soon, all that remained was a small guard. Two Lekgolo, Creiva Dontaree, and Vlar himself.

"Go on," Vlar ordered as he pulled out a plasma grenade.

"Enough dead warriors today," Creiva countered. The Lekgolo, on the other hand, hardly needed to be told twice.

Vlar fired three shots at a dead Unggoy, killing the parasite that was burrowing into it. "Out there is a murderer and a thief, a Human who spreads dishonor upon all unfortunate enough to cross its path, yet blessed with all the luck in the world. And I have failed to bring justice to it."

The grenade in Vlar's hand flared to life, the outer shell sublimating into a luminous blue plasma that warped Vlar's shields. "And out there," he continued. "It is at the mercy of the Parasite. I suppose that will have to serve as justice enough."

Creiva pursed his mandibles and stepped back into the gravity lift. A moment later, he was gone.

The acting commander of Legion 'Kandonom surveyed the battlefield that had been relented to the Parasite, the misshapen constructs and corrupted warriors who crawling after him. With a flick of his wrist, he dropped the grenade and stepped into the lift.

There was no feeling of acceleration, only the rush of air and change in perspective to let him know that he was being carried out of reach of the little perversions. Beneath him, the parasites milled about, hoping to follow him heavenward, only to die in the blast of the grenade.

Moments later, the entire hill disintegrated under the combined power of a battery of point-defense lasers.

The lift drew him up into the depths of the carrier, into a staging room intended to field an entire Legion. The remnants of Legion 'Kandonom did not come close to filling it.

No sooner than the airlocks had clicked shut than he realized that the doors were all blocked by shielded gun turrets and barricades. The Wraiths had been moved to the corners of the bay, and now had their guns trained on the rescued warriors. Alerted by a cacophony of chirps and rustles, Vlar glanced up and saw that the ceiling was packed wall-to-wall with armed Yan'mee.

"Legion 'Kandonom," a voice boomed through the hangar, drowning out everything else. "Know that I am Shipmaster Vasai 'Kandonomee, blood-brother to your late Field Marshall. Had I not intervened, your position would have been overrun in short time."

Vlar finally caught sight of the speaker. Vasai was standing upon a balcony dressed in full battle regalia, with overshields gleaming under the purple lights. He was flanked by two squads of Ultras, enough protection to have wandered unharmed through the deepest parts of the Parasite's territory.

"As the one who engineered your rescue, and as the captain of this vessel, it is my right to subject you to quarantine until we can properly decontaminate every last one of you. Therefore, you will disarm, remove your armor, and not stray beyond the boundaries we've marked upon the floor. To disobey is to forfeit your life."

Those last words had to be bellowed to be heard over the Legion's shouts. The warriors weren't challenging him. Rather their ire was directed inward, had grown from suspicious mutterings to heated arguments. The soldiers who had fought nightmares were realizing that their escape may not have been so clean after all. Relief turned to paranoia, which would turn to hostility if left unchecked, which would beget bloodshed if the Dauntless Courage's crew were forced to intervene.

It was his duty to guide the warriors of Legion 'Kandonom through this. His duty by way of rank and by virtue of studying under Mortumas 'Kandonomee. His decisions had led to the Legion being ambushed by the Parasite, his quick thinking and peerless effort that saved them, and Vlar would die before he saw it all wasted.

Silently, Vlar 'Koalomee reached out and grabbed the barrel of a carbine that was being waved at the Yan'mee above. The owner rounded on Vlar and tried to twist it out of his hand, only to pause when Vlar removed his own helmet. Vlar released the gun, knelt down, and began to systematically strip his armor off, laying out the pieces according to size and function. A few warriors followed his lead when they saw him, with Creiva 'Dontaree among the first. The rest at least lowered their weapons and their voices.

"I order every last warrior who pledged his honor to the late Field Marshal to power down your shields, remove your armor, and let the Yan'mee collect your weapons without protest," Vlar shouted as he stood. "Of course, the Lekgolo pairs are excepted by necessity. In addition, you are all to split into groups of four and watch each other for signs of corruption. If any of you is suspected of being host to the Parasite's taint, he is to be isolated under the watch of the Lekgolo."

The clattering of armor was almost as loud as the chattering of the Yan'mee drones above by the time Vlar finished. He matched gazes with anyone who hesitated until they relented.

The Yan'mee descended and retrieved the discarded items, and for a moment, Vlar was lost in a storm of amber carapace and diaphanous wings. When the air cleared, Shipmaster Vasai 'Kandonomee stood in front of him, his guards half-encircling the two.

"I have half a mind to burn the scraps your lot carried in with you. I do hope you weren't carrying anything... important."

For a moment, his mandibles pressed tightly together, hiding the teeth and letting the not-subtle-at-all threat hang in the air. "Come with me."

Vlar glanced back to the Shades and Wraiths aligned against the Legion, ready to fire at the slightest hint of infection. "And what of my warriors?"

"Any bloodshed within these walls will be of their own making," Vasai replied. "I order you one last time: _come_."

* * *

**2214 Hours, Forward observation deck of the Dauntless Courage**

The lone occupant of the observation deck was a Huragok. Vlar's experience with them was limited, but it seemed to be mournful, limply staring at the rapidly receding landscapes of Halo.

"Get that damnable thing out of here," Shipmaster Kandonomee barked. Immediately, three Kig-Yar guards Vlar hadn't seen stepped out of the shadows and guided the holy being out of the room.

"Ever since we arrived here, the Huragok have been abandoning their duties and taking passage to Halo," Vasai explained. "We had to assign tenders who would ensure that their work gets done. And yet, with the emergence of the Parasite, their urgency has only grown."

"As for more... immediate matters," the Shipmaster continued. "I granted choice weapons to the finest troops present at Halo, upon the promise that the murder of my own kin would be avenged, and that the Docha Blade he carried would be restored to our possession. And yet, as I watched on the Luminary, the Human slipped out of your grasp without losing a single compatriot. Legion 'Kandonom fought well, and yet their leadership was inept... and, I couldn't help but notice, very far away."

"Inept," Vlar repeated, his disbelief audible. The guards that the Shipmaster had brought along were circling again, weapons drawn.

"What would you call it? The warriors that my kin had hand-picked and trained over half his life were delivered straight into the maw of the Parasite. Half their number was lost before they could retreat. And when I had begun to believe you could pull them through with the translocation system you discovered, you abandoned it. And only then did you contact me and beg for help."

The guards were silent now, but it was a different kind of silence. Rather than the unobtrusiveness expected of any bodyguard, there was the baited silence of predators waiting for the opportunity, for their prey to make a single misstep. Would they converge upon him and cut him with metal blades? Or was he so low in Vasai 'Kandonomee's estimation that they would simply shoot him and throw him from the ship?

"You saw the Parasite advance upon us in your Luminary?"

"As plain as stormclouds rolling across the sky. Are you about to claim that you couldn't see them in yours? That a grain of sand in your eye blotted out the Parasite's taint, or that the Luminary simply omitted them?"

"I can only guess. Perhaps the Luminary that the Prophets have blessed us with..." Vlar paused as he saw a shadow of contempt pass across the Shipmaster's face. "Our Luminaries were patterned after designs found in the Dreadnought. Perhaps the Luminary we worked with wasn't designed with the Parasite in mind. Perhaps the Parasite itself had taken to the system and hid its presence from us."

"That is what you claim? That the Parasite could access the machinery designed by the Forerunner? Upon other ears, that would be heresy, not just foolishness."

"You accuse me of leading my troops from afar, yet I was closer to the Parasite than you ever were," Vlar retorted. "I've seen the Parasite burrow into our finest warriors, I've seen it anticipate weaknesses in our defenses with unerring accuracy, and I can't help but wonder if the Parasite can rip knowledge from the minds of those in its thrall. You call it foolishness, yet we have seen the Humans turn the Forerunner's works to their own ends. You denounce me as an incompetent for losing the Docha blade and half of Legion 'Kandonom, yet I have saved that which Mortumas prized most in a situation when even he would have been overwhelmed."

Vlar's short speech had as much effect upon Vasai as wind would upon a rock, but a member of his escort burst out laughing.

"Spare him, Shipmaster. If this is how well he spins failure into virtue, perhaps he should be the one to present our case before the Heirarchs."

"Then he shall be spared," Vasai answered, taking grim satisfaction in Vlar's confusion. He gestured for Vlar to stand. "Look beneath you. Halo is lost to us, and even now we seek refuge on the far side of the planet. The burden of blame will fall upon our shoulders."

"We'll take it back," Vlar insisted. The Covenant had wandered the galaxy for too long to give up on ascension now. "When do reinforcements arrive?"

"There are no reinforcements," Vasai stated flatly. "In all this time since we first gazed upon Halo, we have heard nothing from High Charity, and our sendings have gone unanswered. You have been told differently?"

"But the Lesser Prophet said that High Charity would be here within days."

"Yes, he has said many things," Vasai replied, waving away his guards. They retreated into the shadowy alcoves that lined the room, deaf to the words that would pass between the Shipmaster and his prisoner. "Tell me, in whom did authority rest when we fell from Slipspace and cast our eyes upon Halo? Did the Writ of Union not grant the role of leadership to the San Shayuum in matters spiritual and political?"

"That was the role that was solely allotted to them," Vlar answered. "But the Humans were due to arrive; we followed them here from their fortress-world. The Writ of Union states that all shall walk the path, but the Sangheili protect the faith."

"Then you see where the strife between the Lesser Prophet and our Fleetmaster blossomed. Just as the Prophet would not dare let the Fleetmaster 'Vadamee assume control over the exploration of Halo, the Fleetmaster couldn't let a Prophet dictate military matters. They were at a stalemate until the Prophet took the warriors loyal foremost to the Fleetmaster and cast them to the wind in preparation for a coup. Sesa 'Refumee and Loka 'Bandolee to the distant refineries, your own Field Master to a Human stronghold."

Vlar flexed his mandibles, trying to wrap his mind around the Prophet's actions. The San Shayuum were adverse to bloodshed and prone to debate long after the point where exchange of words became meaningless. But they were, as a rule, benevolent; their keen leadership deserved just as much credit as the Shangheili's military prowess for the spread and prosperity of the Covenant empire.

The edict hadn't been given by the Prophet himself; it had been delivered over the radio through a simpering underling. An underling backed by the authority of the Minor Prophet he represented, who derived his authority from the Writ of Union and the Heirarchs.

The acting commander of Legion 'Kandonom grabbed the railing for support as fire kindled in his hearts.

The underling, nameless save for the office of his master, had spoke of an urgent need to cull the Human vermin before the throne of the Covenant Empire arrived. He had couched the command in well-wishes and apologies for misunderstandings, smiling as the lies slipped loose from his mandibles.

And that false command, the needless haste, had killed Vlar's teacher.

"Where is the false Prophet now?"

Vasai 'Kandonomee glanced at the communicator in his handset, an expression of mild worry crossing his face. "The fool has taken station upon the Truth and Reconciliation, claiming that his security forces would turn the Flood back. All for the best, I would imagine. The path is wide, but shortsighted ambition takes up so very much room."

The Shipmaster turned and strode for the exit, still talking over his shoulder. "When you have regained your composure, return to your Legion and keep them civil. When we have reached the far side of Threshold, we will begin decontamination."

A few heartbeats later, Vlar was alone with his thoughts, puzzling out his lot in life as the universe turned beneath him, the stars slowly arcing across the floor.

The last of Halo disappeared from view. At this distance, it was but a ribbon of blue and white, unmarred and unspeakably beautiful. Lost to the Covenant because they could not live up to their name and founding promise, because they had abandoned unity for mutual suspicion and ambition.

The Parasite... a test of the Forerunner? Vlar was conflicted, torn between a life of faith and his new-found doubts.

But as a divine test or a mundane threat, the Parasite had revealed rifts in the Covenant, rifts that Vlar couldn't help but fear might threaten the integrity of the Covenant as a whole.

Perhaps the sun was setting on the Age of Reclamation.

* * *

**0145 Hours, 5125 meters from Pillar of Autumn crash-site**

"What is that?"

Montag squinted, trying to resolve the splotches of green and gray on his HMD into a coherent image. "Don't stop. Circle around."

"No need," Kanoff answered from above. "It's a huge piece of the Autumn. Part of a Longsword dock, I think."

"Circle around," Montag ordered again. "If it fell off the Autumn, I want to see if it dug a trench out as it hit. Give us an idea of which direction it was falling from. June, can you pick anything up on radar? Or the radio?"

"Nothing on either one," she reported back. "I don't think that the radar's working."

"Alright, just keep moving," Montag said as he spied something. Where the dirt, boulders, and wood chips had piled up against the condominium-sized debris, flickers of white on his HMD turned a rich red color when he switched to infrared. "I'm seeing scattered metal parts glowing in the infrared spectrum. I think they might be destroyed drones."

"Like they were fighting Covenant or... them?"

"Not Covenant," Montag insisted. "We'd have seen the bodies by now. The abominations just get up and walk away as soon as another fleshsack burrows into them."

"The Covenant could be dragging off their dead," Kanoff pointed out. In times like these, I think they'd get around to changing SOP."

"Or the drones did it for them... Or They came through and picked everything clean," Liz chimed in.

"Less chatter, more watching where we're going," Montag ordered as he shouldered the Rifle. He'd be fine if it was only the Covenant, but if it could be any faction in a three-way war, he preferred to play it safe.

The Shadow shifted to the left, and he grabbed for an overhead handle to steady himself. They had finally come around far enough to run into the elongated crater left by the impact. Heavy rain had collapsed the walls and filled it in, yet it was still several stories deep. Montag glanced toward the wreck, wondering if its trajectory had been severely altered by the Ringworld's atmosphere, or if they could find the Autumn by extrapolating its path. For the past kilometer, they'd driven over patchy ground and denuded trees, as if a blast wave had shucked off the branches and stripped the bark away. Closer still, the trees were uprooted or shattered. It was hard to imagine that even a hunk of metal as large as a warehouse could do that, so it stood to reason that the Autumn's trail wasn't far off.

"We flew overhead when we raided the Autumn, didn't we?" Liz asked. "Anybody think this looks familiar?"

"I think it looked a lot different from the air," Kanoff replied. "I don't remember the damage looking anywhere near this bad."

Off to his right, just on the other side of the wreckage, dozens of bolts of lightning seemed to strike at once. Most unlike lightning, the bolts lasted for several seconds, sweeping along the holes and converging on dark forms.

"Drones at five o'clock!" Montag shouted. "Hard le-"

He shut up and scrambled for a handhold as Da Vega spun the Shadow away from the trench and boosted away. Trees that had been felled during the impact scratched against the underside of the vehicle. The snapping of limbs and rustling of needles was punctuated by a number of wet thuds, the origin of which were explained as two limbless abominations rolled past Montag, followed by a rapidly-swelling tumor.

A split second before the explosion, Montag realized that the abominations were rolling into the path of the Warthog. Afterward, the roar of the 'hog's engine was undiminished. Evidently, June was smart enough to leave some distance between her and the Shadow.

A fourth abomination survived with one arm intact and grabbed onto the deck. The sore in the chest had swollen into a hivelike structure, almost completely obscuring the fleshsack that occupied it. Montag stomped on the sore and found that what looked like swollen skin was actually cartilage and hard tissue. Either way, the abomination was torn loose.

"_Kanoff, grab onto something!"_

The ground was a blur of dirt, rocks and branches, the latter becoming increasingly rare. Montag barely had time to shoulder the Rifle and grab onto the overhang before the ground fell away. The Shadow got a full second of airtime. Mud sprayed out from beneath the Shadow's gravity cushion as vehicle met ground again, now sloping steeply downward. The sniper almost lost his footing, and scrabbled toward the end of the troop bay when he heard the flamethrower break free of its duct-tape restraints, snatching it just before it was lost over the side.

The ground evened out, the Spectre started to slow, and came to a shuddering halt as if it struck a brick wall. Then whatever it had hit hit back.

The Shadow went one way, Montag went the other, and the flamethrower went a third. He caught a glimpse of the Shadow spinning off into darkness just before his legs were jerked out from beneath him. He tumbled, slapped into the ground, and slid to a halt.

_'Mud,' _Montag realized, rolling over. Debris had ripped the ground almost to the bedrock, and heavy rainfall had left an ankle-deep layer of mud that smelled rancid, like...

He froze as he saw what the Shadow had hit.

It was built like a human torso, with the head and pelvis sheared off. It was indeed built, as if a dozen bodies had been torn apart and grafted together to make it, with arms as thick as tree trunks and a cratered chest the size of a Warthog. From a weeping cyst in the chest, five fleshsacks glared at Montag.

It was an inverted eye, an empty socket that could still see, and it had seen Montag. They had made eye contact in the same way an insect and a biologist could meet eyes. There was a terrifying moment of vertigo as Montag realized that he was looking into an abyss, far deeper and more malevolent than he could comprehend.

The monstrosity limped over to the Shadow, which had landed upright, and placed a paw on the arch.

"No," Montag breathed, feeling pain well up in his chest. "No, no, don't-"

It shifted its weight, and the Shadow slowly buckled, tearing in half and sinking into the mud.

Montag wanted to tear his eyes away, to look at something other than the loping giant that had been constructed in defiance of rationality. The rising moon behind it obliged him and gave the sniper something else to focus on.

It was no moon, it was another drone; one larger and obscured behind a brilliant blue shield, like the energy barricades the Covenant had.

The towering monstrosity stepped over the Shadow's remains and loped off out of sight. The drone turned to track it, sweeping the area with pink needles. A dozen rockets were fired, their paths curving away from vertical and terminating in the ground around the giant.

Montag broke out of his shock and unsteadily got to his knees. It was a nightmare, one he could ignore. No different from his hallucinations, and he'd learned to ignore _them_ over the years.

One step, then another. The old habits and strategies that he had drilled into himself on Siberia Prime, were rising to the fore. Look around, assess the damage, break the impossible long-term goal into attainable short-term goals, shut down whatever part of you that's beginning to doubt.

At his feet was the defoliator. As good a place as any to start.

He pried it out of the muck and held it upside-down so that the rain would wash the mud off. Through the ringing in his head, he tried to get his bearings, establish the relative positions of the Shadow and the Warthog.

Regroup, retreat, get as much distance between Sierra and the abominations and the drones as possible. They'd have to leave in the Warthog, Montag realized, because the monstrosity had totaled the Shadow. Half consciously, he was deliberately not thinking about who might be injured or dead.

The moonlike drone shattered, and the smaller drones around it fared little better. In the light of the fireball, Montag saw a newer abomination charge the Shadow, rapidly covering the distance with bowed legs. Two long, muscular tentacles tipped in knotted masses of flesh sprouted from a trunklike torso.

No time to check the fuel canister or the pump for ruptures. Without hesitation, Montag primed the defoliator.

It seemed to spy him. The new abomination was more cautious than others of its ilk, or perhaps more clever. It lunged, shifted direction, and bounded off into the rain, cloven feet churning the mud.

The sniper blinked, switched his HMD over to an infrared filter. Nothing.

How fast had it moved? Eighty klicks per hour, at least. If it was afraid of fire, did it withdraw for something else to take its place, or was it circling around him?

"Kanoff, Da Vega, did either of you see where that thing ran?"

"Yeah..." Kanoff replied breathlessly over the radio. "Loped off spinward. I think."

Montag frowned, his eye flicking up to the compass on his HMD. If anything, he'd thought that the thing had gone north. Was it circling around behind the Shadow, or was his sense of direction off? "Alright, both of you, get prepped to evac in the 'Hog. Grab what weapons you can. June, Liz, I need a sit-"

He finally figured out where the sound of the Warthog was coming from. June had stopped by the Shadow, and the FAV was almost completely obscured by the Shadow's bulk. Montag started to walk toward the rest of Sierra Squad when his whole boot sank into the mud.

"No can do, Gui," Kanoff replied, his voice drained of emotion. Whatever the rest was, Montag didn't catch it, as he'd looked down to see what he had stepped in. It was the footprint of the loping monstrosity, still slowly filling up with mud.

Kanoff had said that the 'thing' had 'loped off spinward', Montag realized as a chill ran down his spine. He'd thought Montag's query had referred to the loping monstrosity; perhaps he hadn't even seen the other one.

Which meant that Montag was looking in the wrong direction.

The sniper spun around. The tentacled abomination was rushing him. It was twice as tall as an Elite, yet its footsteps perversely quiet for its size. But now that he saw it, it showed up on infrared clearer than the fleshsack-animated corpses had.

It showed up even better when Montag torched it, catching it in the torso with a geyser of pyrosene.

It screamed, loud as a subway train pulling into a station, with an undertone like a foghorn. But whereas other abominations had wilted or slowed, this one was a juggernaut. It only kept coming.

Montag did the math, arrived at a conclusion, and kicked his feet out from under him. Gravity, or perhaps centripetal force, carried him to the ground where he curled into the fetal position.

A flaming tentacle swung over him, passing through the space where his abdomen had been two seconds before. A second tentacle followed, lower, closer.

Its footsteps had been as quiet as a body hitting the floor, barely audible over its bellowing. But as it ran over Montag, arms flailing and flesh burning, the hoof that landed half a meter from Montag's head sounded like a dud artillery shell.

The juggernaut continued, swinging like a blinded boxer before it realized that it had overshot its quarry. It planted its feet and tentacles into the ground to stop and turn. Like a true predator, it was silent now, intent on finding its prey despite the flames stripping chunks of flesh off its body. Montag held his breath and hoped that it wouldn't hear him over the sound of June gunning the Warthog's engine and putting the vehicle in gear.

One of the tentacles swung over Montag, then the other, each one leaving a peculiar smell of burned flesh and composting grass, each one cracking like a whip. Montag buried himself deeper into the mud and cringed when a tentacle whipped the ground beside him, leaving a furrow four meters long. The other tentacle slammed into the ground, pulled free, and swept toward the first one.

The heat was bearable, drenched as Montag was, but the smell made him sick to his stomach. It was like roast pork mixed with something worse, something that comes out of a week-old corpse when you step on it, something that was fuel to the fire of his fight or flight instinct, urging him to crawl away from the blind abomination, but the mud was sucking him back, holding him in place for the-

The abomination's skin was shucked off by a hailstorm of 12.7mm bullets. It staggered from the gunfire catching it to the flank, whipped its tentacles up and around to protect itself, and was toppled when the Warthog rammed it.

June threw the Warthog into reverse and pulled out from under the juggernaut's corpse. Montag thought she was going to pick him up, but she fishtailed around him as the gatling gun revved up again. She hit the gas and the 'Hog shot off into the rain, another juggernaut in close pursuit. In seconds, the only sign that the Warthog had been there were the tire tracks in the mud.

The lone sniper stood numbly, tried to get his bearings again. Shadow behind him, crater wall to his left, a lake of rainwater to his right. Before him, barely visible through the rain, the clouds had broke enough for some sunlight to get through, like the first fingers of dawn.

He picked his way to the Shadow, giving the scattered munitions a cursory glance as he passed them.

"Not what I expected," Kanoff called out. He was leaning against the Shadow, plasma cannon hanging loosely from its improvised strap. Even in the bad light, he looked unnaturally pale. "Not what I expected from a zombie apocalypse at all."

He quit smiling when Montag got closer. "What the Hell happened to you?"

The sniper was stunned. Kanoff was clearly injured, blood was seeping out from where he had his hand clamped, and yet he thought that Montag looked worse for the wear?

"Forget about me," Montag said. "What happened to you?"

"Got thrown out when the Shadow rolled. Hurt something. Bad." He inhaled, which turned into a hiss of pain. "Then that huge drone hit me with... with a needle. Didn't explode, just burned its way out."

He parted his hands for a moment. In the poor light, it was hard to see what the needle had done to his stomach.

"Keep pressure on that wound," Montag ordered. "When the Twins get back, we'll get you lying down."

"Don't think I'll last... did you see any biofoam canisters out there?"

"No." Montag unholstered the handgun and checked the clip. "I'll go look. Where's Da Vega?"

"Rose is still in the cabin. The loper, it caved the front end in. She's pinned to her seat."

"I'm sorry." Montag had nothing else to say. There was the old habit trying to reassert itself, telling him to push the news away, to rationalize it, to find reasons to despise her. It was an instinct, like lighting matches and knowing how to not get burned. It was a habit he was actively fighting: he doubted that he had more than a few hours left to live, and he wasn't about to fill those hours with the mistakes he'd been making for years.

But how to put all of that into words and communicate it? Best he could do was a two-word apology, the most inadequate one he'd ever had to use.

"It wasn't her fault, Gui," Kanoff insisted, perhaps detecting some of the sniper's inner turmoil. "There's no way she could have seen that loper in time. I didn't even-"

"I never doubted _her_," Montag insisted, giving Kanoff a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "I'm going to look after the biofoam. Watch yourself; we still have a restaurant to open."

"Are you kidding," Kanoff laughed. "Here? The whole neighborhood's gone to Hell."

Montag sidestepped him, ducked into the remains of the troop bay. He quickly located the Rifle, checked it for damage, and loaded a shredder clip into it. He retrieved his backpack next, hunted for a medical kit, and took it with him.

"Here you go," he said as he emerged from the troop bay. "Dirkins consolidated our medical supplies, so there should be a biofoam canister in there."

Kanoff accepted the kit and passed his binoculars to Montag. "See the end of the storm, out on the horizon? Take a close look at it."

Montag accepted the binoculars and set them to their maximum magnification. The impact crater ended, perhaps a few kilometers away. At the end, some sort of hill rose into the sunlight, and Montag's heart skipped a beat when he recognized the exhaust nozzles. Months ago, he'd first seen the Pillar of Autumn from the very same angle, back on Reach.

He was so close, it was heartbreaking.

"Keep them," Kanoff said when Montag tried to return the binoculars. "You'll get more use out of them than I will. You've got to blow the Autumn, but that's your struggle. I went along with it because Da Vega did, and I'm staying with her."

"You're giving up?" Montag asked before he could stop himself.

"No. I wasn't in this last push for you," Kanoff replied. He winced, clutched his chest, and slid down the bulkhead he was leaning on. "I didn't care... but Rose did... and I cared about her. I- my path ends here. You... I think you're supposed to find your end... in the Autumn."

That was it then.

"It's been a pleasure knowing you, Gerry."

"Yeah, same to you... Gui Montag," Kanoff replied as he accepted Montag's hand. "Give 'em Hell."

* * *

**0154 Hours, 76 meters from Shadow crash-site**

Keeping the LAAG on target was impossible. The Hog was plowing through mud and bouncing off rocks and debris that had been ground off the Autumn's underside. The targets themselves, twin juggernauts that had taken chase, jinked from side to side as they kept pace with the Warthog.

"June, find level ground!" Liz shouted, risking a glance forward. The path was clear of enemies, but the sloping walls of the crater loomed near.

Her sister glanced backward, and their eyes met. June's expression was one of grim determination, and more comfortingly, the gears were turning.

"Take aim," she called back. "Braking in three, two-"

On one, the Warthog lurched to a rumbling halt. The leading juggernaut tried to sidestep the gun, but Liz easily corrected. The gatling gun revved up from zero to five-fifty rounds per minute, and every bullet fired tore through the monster's mid-section.

The juggernaut folded in half and tumbled to a stop. The other one vaulted over it and landed close enough to swipe at the Warthog.

The whole vehicle twisted under Liz's feet. She grabbed ahold of the gun and held on as her sister gunned the engine.

The juggernaut lost little ground, and it gained on them even as the Warthog climbed the crater walls, even as fifty-cal bullets stitched a row of holes across its chest. By the time they'd reached the crater's lip, it was close enough for its rainslick carapace to be stained blood red by the Hog's taillights.

While its arms and legs flashed red, the ammunition counter flashed yellow, indicating that there was less than a hundred rounds left. It was suddenly and painfully obvious to Liz that she needed to conserve ammo, not waste it on nightmares that seemed to be immune to bullets.

She unclipped a frag grenade from her belt, armed it, and dropped it over the side. It exploded right next to the juggernaut, breaking its stride. The follow-up was a plasma grenade lobbed squarely onto its midsection.

It keeled over and lay still. It didn't stir when June turned around and rammed it, nor when Liz blew its knee apart with an overcharged plasma bolt.

June parked the 'Hog meters away from the corpse. Silently, the sisters watched the sky around them, the formations of drones that were visible now that the rain had lightened up. Focus beams raked the ground like distant lightning strikes, and return fire was seen intermittently.

"I'm sorry, sis," Liz said, crestfallen. She turned to look behind her, and saw much the same. "We'd have to do just as much shooting to get away from here as we'd do to get to the Autumn."

That had been her hope, her foolish hope that she'd shared with June to get her to go along with Montag and the others. She'd hoped that, somehow, the monsters were a local outbreak, and that Sierra Squad could simply drive away. Montag could be talked down, and they'd steal a Pelican and meet up with the rest of the Marines.

That hope seemed pointlessly optimistic now, a dream of spun sugar. A weary acceptance set in, weighing on her like a heavy coat. She thought of Montag and his dour pessimism, and wondered if he'd ever had hopes like that.

"Are we good for ammo?" June asked as she put the Warthog through a three-point turn.

"No. Are we going back for the others?"

"Hell yes."

"Semper fi," Liz said. The last word almost morphed into an obscenity when she caught sight of the juggernaut. It was charging the Warthog in a four-limbed gait, blood still leaking from the score of bullet wounds in its abdomen.

It dived and tackled the vehicle squarely in the side as June gunned the engine. There was the tortured shriek of buckling armor plating, the hiss of breath as the LAAG crushed her chest, and then a dizzy nausea as Liz rebounded and became momentarily airborne.

The ground yielded more than she did.

Liz coughed up mud, waited for the stars to clear from her vision. She was worse off and better off than she thought she'd be after a car wreck. She was still alive, but the pain outstripped anything she could have imagined.

She tried to roll over, but the mud sucked at her, and a sensation like a shard of glass racing up her arm and into her neck overwhelmed her. She fell facefirst into a clump of rainsoaked turf, unable to process any thoughts more coherent than "Make the pain stop."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a juggernaut advance on the Warthog, hunched over, arms curled in front of it like a boxer. Behind it, walking corpses started shuffling into view, a motley mix of once-Humans and former-Elites, all of which were armed.

If they wanted to destroy the Warthog, they'd have done it already. Liz felt a little ridiculous, realizing that the... whatever they were, they had been trying to capture the Warthog. And whatever they wanted it for, they forgot about it the moment a dozen golden lances struck the juggernaut and lopped off one of its knees.

More beams struck it in the back as it stumbled forward. It held itself upright with its tentacles, and then shuddered as the beams struck something vital. Lifelessly, it toppled like a tree, meeting the ground with a wet thud that Liz felt from twenty meters away.

The corpses had dove for cover at the first sign of the drones, and were now firing back. Needles, bullets and plasma bolts flew skyward, eroding the soap-bubble shields of the drones. The drones were outnumbered, but fought smart. They concentrated fire, lopped off limbs and speared the corpses through the chest. The actual killing of the corpses seemed to be an afterthought; they appeared to be defenseless, if not harmless, when their arms were cut off, and the drones spent more effort destroying the dropped weapons.

Liz rolled over and made a second attempt to push herself upright when she saw a corpse charging her. Another lance of pain raced up her arm, and she collapsed. With her good arm, she grappled for the plasma pistol clipped to her belt.

She needn't have bothered. The corpse vaulted over her, leaving behind a smell like something dredged from the bottom of a lake. Without breaking stride, it continued its race to the Warthog, scrambled into the gunner stand and revved up the gatling gun.

Throughout the clearing, the corpses scrambled for cover again as a volley of rockets flew over the treetops and saturated the area with thunderous explosions. Another large drone, its bulk protected behind a shield like that of a Jackal's defense gauntlet, followed the rockets. It ponderously turned to face the Warthog as a stream of .50 caliber bullets tore into the shield. The shield flickered, dimmed, and held strong as the Warthog ran out of ammo.

Liz's heart skipped a beat.

The corpse wasted no time in leaping out of the gunner stand, but its legs were cut out from under it before it could touch ground. For good measure, a trio of yellow beams played along the length of the gatling gun's barrels and bored a hole through the receiver.

With deceptive serenity, the large drone drifted out of the clearing, leaving a handful of drones to clean up the remaining corpses.

"Liz?"

Her sister was already there, shaking her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"Sis," Liz said, not quite sobbing, not quite sighing with relief. "I broke my arm."

"Which one?" June whispered.

"Landed on my left arm," Liz gurgled as her sister felt up that limb. "'s alright. I wanted to... I thought I'd get one of my arms replaced with a prosthetic so we could still be twins. Not sure if I'd get the left one replaced, same as you, or if it'd be the right one so we'd be mirr'r images of each other..."

June slapped her shoulder, hard. "You're fine, it's not even fractured. Don't talk like that," she snarled. "Now get on your feet, soldier."

She took Liz by the collar and hauled upward. "On. Your. _Feet!_"

Liz almost stumbled as June shoved an assault rifle into her arms. The injured arm still hurt, but the pain wasn't as acute.

The Warthog was parked not fifteen meters away. She could get there. It was as easy as following her sister's lead.

The injured Marine fired a few half-hearted warning shots at a pack of parasites. Her shots went wild, but a radiant focus beam swept through them, surgically popping each one. She craned her neck upwards to stare at the drone. Sierra Squad hadn't seen the drones before, didn't know where they had come from, what controlled them, or even how to communicate with them. Yet the drones were fighting alongside the humans, or at least driving the monsters off. Perhaps "The enemy of my enemy is my friend" transcended species boundaries.

On the other hand, that phrase assumed an equal partnership. If the drones had destroyed the monsters that had pursued Sierra Squad, that indicated that the humans were bait. And judging from now the drones were slicing up bodies, they were in the business of denying everything to the parasites. Scorched earth tactics.

As a direct consequence of watching the sky and not her step, Liz stumbled over a dismembered limb. She righted herself in time, but when she looked up, she saw that she'd fallen behind June. Her sister was a few paces ahead, waiting for her to catch up.

And behind her, the drone had turned to face them.

Scorched earth tactics.

Liz shouted something, she wasn't sure what. Everything was too slow, her body was too heavy, the long grass tangled and caught her every step as she rushed her sister.

Right up to that last moment, June had that look of dawning comprehension, knowing that she was in danger but not knowing what quarter it came from. Right before they met, June dropped her shotgun and spread her arms as if to hug her sister.

Liz tackled her sister hard enough to knock the wind out of her. The ground was just as harsh, probably moreso for June. If she were to be optimistic, it was probably better than getting thrown off the back of the Warthog, and definitely more wholesome than getting cut apart with a laser.

Lightning flashed overhead, with a crackling hiss rather than a booming thunder. Liz took a breath, enough to say she was sorry, enough for a goodbye. But lightning flashed again, and a white-hot knife buried itself into her back. It burned through armor, through skin, through muscle and bone, criss-crossing her spine and pulling out at the small of her back.

She lay there, grateful that it was over. Too grateful to wonder how bad it was, or see what parts of her body she could still feel. It was easier to lay there, close to her sister, and watch the black mist coloring the edges of her vision.

* * *

**0201 Hours, 983 meters from Shadow crash-site**

June ran her fingers down her sister's back, along the jagged cut in the armor from which steam wafted. A dozen synonyms for 'fatal' ran through her mind, words with no place to connect.

"I thought I'd found you... I thought I'd saved you."

She turned her head, looking for the drone that had, if not killed her sister outright, had certainly doomed her to die. It was fending off the corpses, its shields faltering under a hail of bullets, but still fighting back with that hateful focus beam.

An eye for an eye, a life for a life, even if it had no life for her to take. Even if the drone's only fault was a line of code that determined that she and her sister were to be denied to the parasites.

She reached for Liz's belt and unhooked a plasma pistol from its carabiner clip.

"One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three," she whispered in a singsong voice before releasing the trigger. The overcharged bolt flew true, and the drone fell from the sky the moment its shields collapsed, breaking into pieces before it even hit the ground.

The depleted pistol was dropped and forgotten as June slid out from under her sister, rolled her over, cradled her head. Words of apology and gratitude came to mind, but nothing that would sum up the emotional hurricane inside her. She was about to lose the one constant in her life, the person closer to her than anybody else had a chance to be. June was terrified, and she knew her sister was too, because Liz would be forced to abandon her twin and face death alone. Given what was out there, closing in on them, it was hard to say which fate was worse.

"I'm here for you," June whispered, hoping that Liz had enough life left in her to hear those words. "I've always been here for you."

She gently removed Liz's helmet, brushed her hair back and pulled the family photo from the brim of the helmet, held it up for Liz to see, and then pressed it into her hand. Her sister's fingers curled around her own, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

A walking corpse that thought it was sneaking up upon easy prey was caught flat-footed when June picked up the MA5C her sister dropped and opened fire. The rifle was too front-heavy to shoot one-handed, as the magazine as mostly empty. The muzzle dipped, and the bullets punched a staggered line of holes down its abdomen and across one knee, tripping it up.

The rest of the mag, when emptied into the corpse's torso, proved sufficient to turn it into a real cadaver.

June hit the release stud and glanced at her sister, hoping to see a spare magazine on her belt. To her surprise, Liz already had one out, and was struggling to line it up with the assault rifle's magazine well. She lowered the rifle onto the magazine until it clicked, after which Liz reached out, hooked a finger onto the charging handle, and managed to pull it back far enough to chamber a round before her hand slid off.

Twenty rounds left in the magazine, and Liz had struggled to even lift that.

The hissing of near misses cut that train of thought short. Another corpse had come up behind her with a shotgun. It missed the first time, but the second shot got closer. A handful of pellets flattened against her armor, and one creased the skin on her neck.

June turned, rested the assault rifle on the stub of her injured arm, and peppered the corpse with four and five-round bursts. The corpse held its ground, largely because most all of her shots weren't even coming close. The tentacle that was wrapped around the shotgun contracted, pumping another shell into the chamber.

She twisted and threw herself prone. With the assault rifle held by her outstretched arm, she aimed down the electronic sight and buried the last three rounds in the corpse's chest.

"I'm not leaving you," the Marine whispered to her sisteras she got up out of the mud. The corpse lay still as she walked over, shoved the MA5 into its chest wound, and twisted until it was buried past the flashlight. When she saw no response, June pulled the shotgun out of its hand, and checked the magazine.

In the distance, the last drone was destroyed, and all across the clearing, corpses rose to their feet and hunted for new prey. Weapons were few and far between, but it hardly mattered when she was hopelessly outnumbered.

"'s alright," June whispered to herself. "Just got to get Liz to the 'Hog and..."

As she backpedalled to her sister, she glanced toward the Warthog and suppressed a scream of frustration as she saw a trio of boomers waddling into the space between her and the vehicle. Instead, she raised the shotgun and fired at the leading boomer. True to its name, it flopped onto its vestigial face, swelled, and exploded. Its brethren were torn off their feet and sent flying.

"Going to get you back..." June trailed off as she did the math. Instead of three slow and explosive proto-zombies between her and escape, there were now any number of agile parasites waiting for her. She couldn't get past them without a gun, and couldn't carry her sister and a gun at the same time.

June flipped the shotgun, caught it by the pump, and shook it down and up hard enough to rack a shell into the chamber. She loosened her hold on the pump and caught the gun by the pistol grip. She swung the gun in an arc, so that at its apex, it lined up with the fleshsacks crawling out of the boomer's remains. When she fired, the recoil rattled flesh all the way up her arm, and her cry of pain was drowned out in a hail of plasma bolts.

She flipped the shotgun as she fell to her knees and barely felt the pump hit the palm of her hand over the pins and needles tingling. Wearily, she braced the stock against her hip and pumped the shotgun.

Dozens of fleshsacks streamed out of the darkness, skittering out of the path of the shotgun's flashlight. Beyond them, beyond the shotgun's effective range, a corpse was covering her with a plasma rifle, waiting for her to succumb to her injuries, waiting to see if it should help her along even further.

The end of the shotgun dipped down as gravity and leverage pulled the gun from her hand. June surprised herself by relaxing her arm and firing the last shell into the ground. The fleshsacks surged forth.

That was it. She was out of ammo, out of strength, and outnumbered. As her drill instructor had taught her and her sister, there was a world of difference between fighting and struggling. It didn't matter how many of the things she killed if they got to her sister anyway

Liz was lying right next to her, as peaceful as if she were sleeping. She had no breath to breathe, no tears to cry, and June was dead-set on making sure she stayed that way.

The first fleshsack that leaped onto her skittered across her chestplate and tore into her side. Another one landed on her shoulder and darted down her arm. It sunk a tentacle into her wrist and cut off all sensation June had in her hand, but it was too late. She'd already pulled a frag grenade from her belt, primed it, and released.

* * *

**0159 Hours, Shadow crash-site**

Kanoff eased himself into the Shadow's cockpit, dragging the T-42 behind him. If he watched one side, and Montag watched the other, they could protect Rose. Probably. Kanoff knew better than to crunch the numbers on that idea.

He reached out for her wrist, felt for a pulse. It was weak and infrequent, a sharp contrast to the rain hammering down on the husk they had sought refuge in. He lowered his hand and laced his fingers with hers, tried not to look at the mangled remains of her legs.

"You know, it just occurred to me that we could cut you out with Gui's sword..." he said. He glanced at the blood-soaked seat and shook his head. "Fat lot of good it'd do though."

With his free hand, he released the monopod on the plasma canon and tried to wrestle it into firing position.

"Remember trading stories of why we signed up? I joined because I didn't care. Following orders and letting others do the thinking for me sounded like a good plan. Just until I found something that I could be ambitious about."

The plasma cannon hummed to life, and the hail of plasma bolts it fired went nowhere near the intended target. The zombie had ducked and rolled out of sight before he could correct.

"Turns out, that something was you, Rose. Maybe it was only ever just mutual infatuation, but I wish we could've had more time. I think we could have made it work."

Another zombie came at the Shadow, ducking under the plasma cannon's line of fire and running on all fours. Kanoff let go of Da Vega's hand and hefted the plasma cannon, ignoring the needle of pain in his chest.

"Not doing that again," he whispered as he primed a grenade and threw it at the newly made corpse. The flash of blue energy left him seeing stars and little else.

"Crap," he muttered as he squeezed the trigger again. A stream of blue bolts lit up the night. It was some small relief to know that he wasn't blinded, he'd just ruined his nightvision.

"I'm babbling, I'm sorry, I just don't know," he continued. "I'm supposed to be saying how much you mean to me, because you're dying and might not even be able to hear me now, but life... life really threw us a curveball. First Halo, then parasite zombies-hold on."

He picked Da Vega's assault rifle out of the rent it had fallen into. Tenderly, he checked the magazine, raised it to his shoulder, and fired at the dark figures waddling in his direction. One of them stumbled, swelled, and burst.

Kanoff swept the rifle from side to side, forsaking accuracy for covering fire. The little sacks of flesh scurried across the mud, ducking behind debris and rocks.

"Can't see," he breathed. The strobing light from the muzzle flash made it hard to see if he was hitting anything. Belatedly, he remembered the flashlight on the underside of the gun and fumbled for it. Instead, he found a deep gash in the plastic casing. Pressing what was left of the button produced a weak light, hardly better than nothing.

The ammunition counter finally finished its countdown from sixty. He blinked away the blotches and peered into the rain. The fleshsacks broke cover, streamed across the ground, their bodies faintly pulsing with bioluminescence in time to the shivers running down his spine. He could hear, over the dull ringing in his ears and the sound of Montag firing his sniper rifle, the cries of the fleshsacks, like hinges that had gone too long without oil.

Kanoff coughed, fought a combination of nausea and panic. The smell of spoiled meat and propellant mixed together, made his stomach turn over. He felt along Da Vega's belt, looking for extra ammunition or a plasma sidearm, something. The last thing he expected to feel was Da Vega's hands closing around his own, or for something round and heavy to fall into his lap.

He dropped the MA5C and picked the object up. It was a glassy smooth sphere, with a single indent. Da Vega whispered something, but it was lost in the rain and the tapping of tentacles on the Shadow's hull.

"Right," he said as he primed the grenade. "I'll see you on the other side."

* * *

**0204 Hours, Shadow crash-site**

Montag glanced at the small pile of ammunition he'd gathered, barely a scratch of what Sierra Squad had taken from the Pelican. The rest had been lost or spent at a rate that made the successful completion of the journey doubtful, at best. After weighing concealment against protection, he pulled the base of a plasma barricade out of the pile, set it into the ground, and activated it.

The sniper's eyes drifted toward the horizon, toward the misshapen form of the Pillar of Autumn. It couldn't be more than five kilometers away, a distance that could be walked if it weren't for the battle raging throughout the crater. A battle that had settled down some since Sierra Squad had arrived.

Montag sighted through the Rifle's scope and activated the nightvision filter. There were distinctly fewer drones to bee seen as he panned across the crater, and where the remaining drones had clustered together, the abominations had converged.

One of the large ones, one with a shield like a full moon, fell from the sky as two rockets struck it in rapid succession.

"Still alive, I see," the Shadow said, looking over Montag's shoulder. I guess we really are hard to kill."

Montag turned around to look the Shadow in the eyes, or rather, in the eyepieces. Two hooded lenses glinted wickedly in the firelight, set deep inside a plastic gas mask. A threadbare greatcoat completed the Shadow's outfit, out of place anywhere but a certain planet hundreds of lightyears away, four years ago.

"Petrol? Is that you?"

Peter?" the Shadow replied. "Your conscience? No, you want a devil on your shoulder, so that's what I am."

Without elaboration, the Shadow strode past Montag and gave the T-48 a mocking kick. "So, do you really think that the twins are coming back for us?"

"If they're still alive, they will," Montag retorted. He sighted on an abomination and squeezed off three rounds. At least one of the bullets passed through the fleshsack, stopping corpse in its tracks.

The Shadow was there when Montag ducked behind the plasma barricade, calmly loading bullets into a BR-55 magazine. "You wouldn't. You'd find some excuse to hide away, leave them behind. Not out of cowardice, naturally, but pragmatism. Maybe you'd know, with all of your combat experience, that coming back would be a suicide mission."

"They aren't like that!"

"No? You were the one who was so proud when Da Vega held you at gunpoint. Deep down, you want to _have been_ right. You're happy to have this little night prove that, if your way isn't the right way to approach warfare, it's at least what everyone defaults to when Hammond's exports hit the fan."

The rythmic burst-fire of Kanoff's assault rifle merged into fully automatic fire, the percussions echoing hollowly off the crater walls.

"What if I ordered you to run for it?" the Shadow asked. "That would be alright, wouldn't it? You could always tell yourself that you were just following orders.

Shivers ran down Montag's spine as he activated his radio and hailed June. He needed somebody to talk to, somebody that didn't know him as well as the Shadow did. "Montag to Warthog. Advise on situation."

Silence settled over the crater as he checked his ammunition, listening in vain for a response. Anything other than the tapping rain and the moans drifting through the stagnant air.

"June, Liz, respond."

The sniper rolled to his feet and pulled the Handgun out of its holster. The safety was flicked off, the targetting laser was turned on, and a ghost of the beam could be seen reflecting off raindrops as he scanned for hostiles.

"Please. If you're still out there... If anybody's out there..." he whispered. In the corner of his HMD was a wireless icon. When selected, it expanded into a list of all the transponders his radio could pick up. The Warthog was at the top of the list, the associated stats under its serial number indicating that it was still in running condition.

Da Vega was the first below the materiel list. Her standard-issue neural interface was just barely registering a heartbeat. She was listed as incapacitated, priority for medical attention if only Sierra Squad still had a corpsman.

Under her, Kanoff registered second, with elevated vitals and a lowered blood pressure.

Montag's heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of Liz and June. June's stats were blank, not even a signal, while her sister...

Liz's vitals were flat. She was dead.

"Kanoff," Montag muttered. His mouth was dry, his lips sealed together. It took a herculean effort just to separate them and force that little bit of breath into coherent words. "Kanoff, I-"

Behind him, a bright blue explosion ripped apart the Shadow's cabin.

The echoes had long died down when Montag spoke again.

"Is there anybody out there?"

* * *

_It wasn't alone._

_It shared thousands of minds. The collective thoughts and experiences of parasite, host, and construct were its own, and its will was theirs. But some infection forms and some hosts were in the thrall of other Compound Minds, intelligences which had not reached enlightenment. Lost in the darkness, driven by instinct, they were not ready to merge._

_No matter. They could still coordinate, still make preparations to escape their prison. And the Intelligence could still feed them information, push them nearer to true sapience._

_The nearest one was separated by a large fraction of Halo, embedded in the deepest part of a crippled Covenant ship. The Covenant who had arrived to recapture the cruiser and rescue their leader were failing to hold their ground. They could not take the bridge, nor halt the repairs being made to the engines. And they did not know of the astrogation data being harvested from the ship's computer and the mind of a captured Human._

_The harvesting was interrupted as a blow was struck to the Central Mind itself. The hosts in its thrall were thrown into disarray as it tried to recombine and recover from the wound it had been dealt. Like a candle flame as the wind rolled through, it flickered uncertainly before being blown out._

_The Intelligence extended its influence and captured the thralls. Barricades were hastily erected, hosts were called back to their tasks, but the Truth and Reconciliation was lost. The new Covenant reinforcements fought through the ship, crushing defenses and eradicating all trace of host and parasite._

_There was another Compound Mind, further away. The Covenant Armada had included a ship dedicated to carrying food for the rest of the fleet. A relative handful of hosts and infection forms had infiltrated the ship and spread, converting the food-animals, the crew, and the security detail. The resulting Compound Mind was anemic, rich in biomass but deprived of truly sentient life. But it relentlessly devoured the knowledge that the Intelligence fed it, a flame that was shining brighter, burning hotter. And as soon as the command codes could be deciphered, the Infinite Succor would be bound to the backwater worlds of the Covenant Empire._

_And it too was blown out._

_For the first time since its release, the Flood was a single unified whole. Every parasite, every host, every construct and amalgamation was an extension of a single Intelligence._

_Forerunner, Covenant and Human. By itself, neither faction could have stemmed the Flood. But even struggling together, they were a considerable obstacle. _

_Work on the warship was redoubled. Hosts and constructs were recalled and set to guard the Central Intelligence. The ones who would not make it in time were organized into lances, set to strike deep into the foundations of Halo and disrupt the transportation network._

_Victory would not be assured, not until this warship, this Pillar of Autumn, ventured out into the stars._

* * *

**A/N: Five years ago, if you had told my younger self that I wouldn't finish Isolation that summer, I wouldn't have believed you. If you had told me that Isolation would span thirty chapters, I would have called you a liar. If you had told me that I wouldn't finish for more than five years, I would have had some probing questions about winning lottery numbers and the like.**

**The closer I get to the end, the harder it is to write. I don't think that I'm getting bored with writing, it's just that... well, it's easier to build a story up than it is to bring it to a close. It's always been like that for me; got a dozen outlines for stories set in various fictional universes, but few with any real endings to them.**

**As for other going-ons, readers with sharp memories might have recognized the Juggernaut, a Flood unit cut from Halo 2. As for some other, stranger forms mentioned, I follow a theory that there is a stage of development for the Flood, where they have progressed beyond merely infecting hosts, but are not able to produce Pure forms yet, and would instead fuse bodies together. **

**The whole concept dates back to a several-dozen page long thread on the HWF where we theorycrafted a Flood faction that could appear in multiplayer, but not singleplayer. I mean, ES wouldn't stoop to breaking canon and shoehorning in the Flood just for the sake of a third faction. Not only would that necessitate shoving the Spirit of Fire and everyone on it into a dark corner for the rest of the war, but it would be the same lame plot twist we'd seen throughout the original trilogy.**

**And yes, I'm still bitter about the whole thing. ; )**

**Also, _Mass Effect_ reference up there. Apologize. Couldn't resist.  
****And _Left For Dead_. And _The Walking Dead_. And _Dead Winter_. Hell, probably anything with "Dead" in the title, short of _Dead or Alive_.**

**And on a final note, if you had told my past self that B**ra**dbur**y **would still be alive five years after I started writing this, I wouldn't have believed that either. Obviously, the inspiration I took from Fahrenheit 451 and his other works have faded with time, but... well...**

**Rest in peace, sir.**

**As for the rest... aw Hell, I'll save it for the last chapter.**


End file.
